


All My Stars Aligned

by alullabytoleaveby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Amnesia, Anastasia!AU, Community: deancasbigbang, Conman Dean, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Family, Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Charlie/Dorothy, Prince Castiel, Romance, Violence towards children, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5053222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alullabytoleaveby/pseuds/alullabytoleaveby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Princess Regent Hannah still clings to the hope that her brother, Crown Prince James, is alive after a failed coup ten years ago. And with a hefty reward on the line, Dean’s going to make sure that he’s the one to find the lost prince, even if it means picking up a random stranger to play the part. Castiel isn’t sure why he agreed, but if it gets him to Eden to finally get a chance to figure out his past, then he’ll play along--even if his “people skills” are “rusty”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There are many many people I need to thank, for without their help, kindness, patience and encouragement, this story would never have been written, so I ask your forgiveness for this overly long author’s note.
> 
> My darling, darling Musey. Thank you so so much for being my sounding board, listening to me complain when I was stuck, for constantly reassuring me that this fic is worth reading and for flailing and screaming at me when I sent you snippets. Your excitement is infectious and a better motivation I have yet to find. You are the best friend a fic writer can have and I am so incredibly grateful that you joined me on this journey. I love you and I hope that this fic is everything you hoped it would be.
> 
> Leanna, my more experienced, wiser, more knowledgeable friend. You doing this challenge last year is what really encouraged me to take the plunge and give it a shot myself. I do not know how I could have done this without you holding my hand and constantly cheering me on from the sidelines. Thank you for always having a song recommendation when I needed it, for engaging with me while I whined about these two idiots, always knowing just what to say to make me feel less overwhelmed, and for your always eager anticipation. I could never have done this fic without you.
> 
> To my friends in real life who may not always get my brand of fangirliness but who are always so endlessly supportive—Rebecca, Claire, Bronwyn, Andrea and Hannah, I’m so grateful for you lending me an ear. Even if you never actually read this (and it’s totally okay if you don’t), I hope you know how much it meant to me to know that you were excited with me for each milestone I crossed with this fic.
> 
> My beta, Kototyph, thank you so so much for giving this a look over and catching my many many mistakes. 
> 
> And last, but certainly not least, my artist, madches, who made my dreams of Dean and Cas waltzing a visual reality. Thank you for all your hard work and the gorgeous art you’ve made of this story that is very close to my heart. It’s been a delight to work with you. [Masterlist is here](http://madches.tumblr.com/post/131687544044/so-here-is-the-art-i-did-for-alullabytoleavebys)
> 
> ****6/25/17: It has come to my attention that this fic has been listed on Goodreads. I am currently in the process of having the fic removed from that site. I have not and will not give permission for any of my works to be listed on Goodreads. I ask that in the future, you do not add my work there. Thank you.****

Hannah can’t help but sigh in frustration as she trudges across the lawn towards the small pond at the edge of the property. Father and Councillor Bartholomew had announced at dinner that she’d be leaving, and Jimmy slipped his bodyguard and ran away the moment they’d finished. She’d wanted to run after him right away, but she knew that he needed some time to process. She’d held off tracking him down, but it’s been hours and it’s going to be dark soon. It isn’t safe for the Crown Prince to be outdoors by himself.

She hefts up her skirts as she walks, wanting to avoid getting mud on the hem and making more work than necessary for the servants. Only once she’s over the hill and can see the lone, little figure curled up on the shore does she pause. Jimmy is skipping rocks into the water--a skill that Uriel had taught him the year before. He still isn’t great at it, most stone jumping once before they sink down into the water. A slump of his shoulders is the only indication he’s still upset, but Hannah can see it and it makes the guilt in her stomach begin to bubble again.

It isn’t that she wants to leave. Honestly, it was just as much of a surprise to her as it was to Jimmy. She’d suspected, of course, but nothing was set until this evening. She didn’t see the point in worrying her poor brother over something that may not have happened. There’s nothing she can do about it now, though. The plans are already in place: she’ll be going to Eden, to the city, by the end of the week. Her debut is scheduled a month out and while Hannah doesn’t really want to be paraded around like a show pony, it’s what has always been done.

James may be younger than her, but he’s still first in line for the throne. Hannah’s position, she knows, she’s been taught, is purely ornamental. She’s worked long and hard to accept it and while the idea of marriage still seems so...strange to her, it’s going to happen whether she likes it or not.

Her only regret is that Jimmy will be all by himself now.

He’s such a serious, thoughtful child. And being the crown prince doesn’t exactly make it easy for him to make friends. There are a couple servant boys on the property--Winchester, Hannah thinks their last name is. Their father is the manor’s mechanic and chauffeur. They’ll indulge Jimmy occasionally, but the older one always lets him win at whatever game they’re playing out of misplaced fear. She doesn’t blame them— they’re in a rather precarious position. But it’s not like any of the aristocratic children behave any differently. Lord Virgil’s children were always simpering and brown-nosing when they paid their visits every winter. Jimmy isn’t dumb; he knows what they’re doing. So he keeps to himself for the most part.

She climbs down the ridge to the small shore of built up silt and mud that circles the pond where Jimmy is currently crouched. She isn’t quiet about her approach, but he pays her no mind, perhaps purposely ignoring her. He picks up another rock and doesn’t even bother trying to skip it, just throws it into the water where it sinks with a ‘plop’. Hannah glances down and has to bite back a groan when she sees the state of his pants, grass and mud stained, torn at one knee. Hester, the house mistress, is going to be livid.

They stand there, side by side on the shore, while Jimmy continues to hurl rocks into the expanse of water in front of them. The ripples travel quickly, float right on back to them, until they’re lapping at the shore inches away.

“It’s okay if you’re still mad,” Hannah finally says, breaking the silence between them. Jimmy frowns and picks up another stone, but doesn’t throw it this time.

“I’m not mad,” he whispers, voice small and upset and Hannah can’t help but be reminded that her brother is just ten years old. He drops the stone and sits down in the dirt and the mud.

“That’s okay too,” Hannah says. He reaches one dirty hand out and grabs under the edge of her skirt, looping his small hand around her ankle. It smears a brown streak of mud onto the hem.So much for keeping her clothes neat.

He leans in, nuzzling his head into her legs. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Oh Jimmy,” Hannah murmurs, running her hand through his hair. “I don’t want to go either. But I have to.” Councillor Bartholomew thinks it’s high time that she earn her keep, and their father. Well. She hasn’t heard him speak out against it. She hasn’t heard his opinion at all, really, for a very long time. It’s like he’s not even there most of the time, but he trusts Councillor Bartholomew implicitly. If he thinks it’s time for Hannah to make her way into society, then maybe it is.

“I’m going to be all alone,” Jimmy sniffs.

“You’ll have Uriel. And Tutor Inias,” Hannah says.

“But they have to be around me. They’re servants.”

Hannah has nothing to say to that; it’s true. “You’re going to be able to join me eventually. Once you’ve grown up. And I can come back to visit.” If her husband allows her to. She grimaces, glad that Jimmy’s face is still pressed against her skirts so he can’t see the pinched look.

“But that’s years and years and years away.”

Hannah crouches down next to him on the shore and pulls him close. “I know. You’ll be okay though. I know it.” She reaches up to her neck, unclasps the locket that always rests against her heart and presses the trinket into Jimmy’s small hands. “You know Mom gave this to me right? I was about as old as you.” The ‘just before she died’ is left unsaid.

“I know.”

“Have you ever looked inside it?” Hannah asks him, reaching out to release the pin holding it closed.

“It’s Eden,” Jimmy says, fascinated, as it opens, revealing a small map, the city at the center. He takes no note of the engraving on the other side that reads ‘So your heart will always know where I am’. It’s not as interesting, of course.

“Mother gave it to me before she left me behind for a treatment.” It hadn’t worked, just like all the treatments before it, and their mother had come back from the city even more frail. “I want you to hold on to it for me, okay?”

Jimmy looks up at her with wide, questioning eyes. “But…”

“Just until we meet again.”

Jimmy nods, solemn, before looping the chain around his neck. “Okay.”

Hannah pushes herself up from the ground and extends a hand to Jimmy. “Come on, we should head in before they send Uriel out to get us. You know he won’t be happy if he finds us both out after dark.”

Jimmy grabs hold of her hand and heaves himself to his feet. He takes a second to brush off his lost-cause trousers and then they walk up towards the estate, one hand in Hannah’s, the other tightly clutching the locket that hangs next to his heart.     

* * *

Jimmy hasn’t ever felt so afraid in his life. Uriel has his hand and is practically dragging him along as they run down the servants’ stairs; his small legs cannot keep up with the large man’s  adult stride. The locket Hannah gave him thump-thump-thumps against his chest, each jerky, frantic movement sending it smacking against him underneath the confines of his clothes. He never takes off the locket, usually finds it to be a source of comfort. But right now, nothing could calm his frantically beating heart.

Tears flow down his face and he knows that it’s slowing him down, that he isn’t getting enough air because he’s crying, but he is just so scared. Uriel shook him awake in the middle of the night, demanding that he get up and move, now now now while smoke filtered in through the door. All around them, there’s screaming and shouting, smoke and flames, the sound of glass breaking and wood splintering. Jimmy has no idea what’s going on, but he can’t stop running long enough to catch his breath and ask.

Frustrated at his slowing pace, Uriel stoops and lifts him into his arms. As they run out the side door--the one only used for kitchen deliveries--there’s a large explosion that shakes the whole building.  Jimmy can’t help it; he shrieks. Shattered glass rains down upon them and Jimmy throws his arms over his head. It protects him slightly, but the sharp edges do cut down his arms, and one catches on his cheekbone. Uriel doesn’t stop moving, taking them across the manicured lawn and towards the woods that surround the estate.

Jimmy whimpers, wipes snot and blood and tears onto Uriel’s tunic.

He’s not sure how long they keep moving, but eventually the commotion fades into the distance and all Jimmy can hear is the eerie quiet of the forest at night. Uriel begins to slow down and he eases Jimmy out of his arms, allows him to move on his own.

“Uriel?” he asks, his voice wavering.

“Be quiet, child,” the older man snaps. Chastened, Jimmy does just that.

They crunch through dead leaves, push branches from low hanging trees out of the way as they carefully sneak through the woods. There’s no masking their trail, too hasty and obvious to be missed, but so far Jimmy can’t hear anything besides the two of them. They reach a clearing and Uriel lets go of Jimmy’s hand as they stop for a moment to catch their breath.

Jimmy starts to cry again, unable to stop the tears streaming down his face. “Uriel, what’s happening?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Uriel grumbles, his voice low and cold. It’s so different from the way he normally speaks to him. Uriel is by no means warm, but there’s always been an underlying fondness in his tone. Dread strikes Jimmy at its absence, and he takes a step back.

“Uriel?” he asks again. He’s trembling. The big man in front of him scoffs, stalking slowly after him.

“I don’t want to do this,” he says. “But I need to.” Jimmy wants to move, wants to run, but instead he’s frozen in place, wide eyed and terrified. Uriel grabs hold of him and pushes him up against a tall tree, its trunk sturdy and gnarled. Jimmy scratches futilely against the man’s arms that are pinning him down.

“Stop it, please, stop it,” he pleads. “Just let me go, please.” Uriel shifts so that he’s got one hand around Jimmy’s neck.

“There are casualties in every war, boy.” Jimmy’s scrambling now, arms and legs flailing as Uriel slowly closes his hand around his windpipe. He lands one good kick, nailing Uriel in the nose. He howls, dropping Jimmy as he reels back, hands cupping his face.

“You fucking brat,” he growls, and this time Jimmy does run. He darts through the trees and the branches but he isn’t familiar enough with the landscape to really get far. His foot catches on a tree root and he stumbles and falls to the ground with a cry. Uriel is on him again before he even has a chance to do anything more but roll over. He straddles Jimmy’s waist, his hands gripping his shoulders tightly and he shakes the boy. Jimmy’s head jerks back into the dirt, smacking against another root and he cries out in pain. There’s blood on the ground now, it’s flowing quickly, quickly out of the back of his skull and his vision goes fuzzy. The last thing he sees before everything goes black is Uriel, glaring down at him.

* * *

Once Jimmy goes limp, Uriel rises off the child. There’s a bit of his blood on his hands and, unconcerned, he wipes it on his tunic.

It doesn’t take long for Bartholomew to find them in the woods. It’s almost as if he was lurking around a tree trunk, waiting for the act to be done. Honestly, the man’s creepy enough that Uriel wouldn’t put it past him.

“It’s done then?” Bartholomew asks. Uriel crosses his arms over his chest.

“See for yourself,” he sneers. Uriel’s never liked Bartholomew, finds his methods a bit extreme, but even he has to admit this was the right plan. If they’re ever going to take back the state, then it had to be done. He doesn’t have to like it though; doesn’t have to like the fact that he’s just extinguished the life of the boy that’s been his charge for six years now. And he certainly doesn’t have to like that this glorified puppet master has the audacity to doubt that Uriel has the guts to complete his dirty work.

Bartholomew takes a couple steps closer to the boy and stares at him for a long while before he crouches down to take a closer look. He presses two fingers to the boy’s neck, searching for a pulse. After a moment, he nods, satisfied.  

“Good work,” he says.

“Should we bury him?” Uriel asks. Bartholomew shakes his head.

“No. The animals should take care of him long before anyone has a chance to find him.”

“So we can get out of this godforsaken place, then?” Uriel asks. Bartholomew chuckles.

“Oh Uriel. I thought we agreed Uriel: no witnesses.” Before Uriel can react, the man’s got a sword through his chest. Uriel coughs, blood dripping from his lips, the bright tip of the sword glinting in the early dawn light.

“Bastard,” Uriel gasps out.

“Needs must,” Bartholomew replies. He watches impassively as the light goes out in the man’s eyes and he slumps forward onto the ground. He pulls his sword out then, letting the body collapse onto the ground. Without another thought, he wipes his blade off on the man’s shirt before stalking back the way he came, leaving the two bodies at the forest’s mercy.

* * *

On the ground, the boy groans softly. He spends a couple minutes just breathing, gasping for breath. He’s weak, his limbs shaking from cold and blood loss. It’s an incredible effort to even roll over from where he’s laying on the ground, disoriented and confused.

There’s a strange man lying next to him, big and burly, dark skinned and covered in blood. He’s dead, he’s sure of it.  

The boy is scared, doesn’t know where he is, how he got here, or who the dead man is. Fear settles in his gut and he knows, instinctively, that he needs to get away from this place, get as far from here as his shaky legs and dizzy head will allow him.  Scrambling and stumbling, he pushes himself to his feet, then from tree to tree until he finally reaches the edge of the forest.

There’s less fear now that he’s in the open air, but without the panic burning through him, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do next. He’s woozy again and he wants to lay down on the side of the road. But he’s pretty sure if he does, he may never get up again. He wraps his arms around himself and fights the urge, blinking blearily into the early morning light. The sun is rising, the horizon burning red.

Soon enough, a car comes driving down the dirt road. He makes an aborted effort to wave them down, his arms not quite functioning and his throat far too dry and damaged to shout. It screeches to a halt anyways and the driver pokes her head out of the window.

She’s dressed in a long dark robe, a flash of white fabric around her neck, and her hair covered by a dark cloth. Laying across her chest is a large wooden cross. There’s another woman dressed exactly like her sitting in the passenger seat, two more in the back. Nuns, he thinks, unsure how or why he knows that.

“Please help me,” he pleads, his voice raspy and needy.

“Are you hurt, child?” She asks, her expression stern even when tinged with concern.

“My...my head. Please, it hurts.” She opens the car door then, climbs out to examine him, takes in the cuts on his face, the bruising around his neck. He winces when she gently tilts his head to get a better look at the back, where his hair is matted with blood and dirt. When her face comes back into view, she’s frowning.

“What’s your name, child? Where is your family?”

The boy blinks rapidly. “I don’t. I don’t know,” he says breathlessly and then, unbidden, tears are streaming down his face and he’s sobbing. “I don’t know!”

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

**10 years later**

_He’s running through a forest that’s on fire, his lungs filled with smoke. He coughs, can barely breathe, and the soot and ash make his eyes water. There’s someone chasing him, this great giant beast of a man, with cracked black skin that glows orange along its fissures. He stomps steadily behind Castiel, everything he touches bursting into flame with a flourish._

_Castiel trips and falls. He knows it’s coming, can feel the second that his foot catches on a tree root, and his stomach shifts with vertigo as his balance shifts. He braces himself for the fall with his hands and scuffs up the heels of his palms as he collides with the forest floor. He scrambles, crawls to his feet, has to keep moving because the fire man is coming. He’s right behind Castiel, he can feel the heat of him. He knows can’t outrun him, but he limps along because he has no other choice._

_“Please,” he says, although he’s not sure what’s he’s asking for. “Please.”_

_The fire man doesn’t respond, just continues to stalk forward. Castiel’s so tired, so so tired. So he stops running and he turns around to face his demons._

_Flames lick out of the man’s mouth and he roars, shooting fire into the sky like a dragon. The horizon glows red and orange, tinged with black._

_They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them moving. The giant man makes the first move, lunging forward and Castiel deftly dodges the man’s grasp. The tree behind him bursts into flames as the man’s fingers brush the bark._

_“What’s your name?” he growls. “Who are you?”_

_“I don’t know,” he pants, “I don’t know.”_

_“What’s your name?” The man repeats. Castiel shakes his head. He lunges once more and this time catches Castiel. He screams when the man’s hand makes contact with his bicep, burning a handprint into his arm. Flames lick up the side of his arm, catching on his clothes, overwhelming him with heat and smoke. He never stops screaming._

“The search for Crown Prince James continues,” _the man says when he opens his mouth again and, even through the pain, Castiel can tell that’s not right._ “Her Royal Highness, Princess Regent Hannah, issued a statement today upping the reward...”

Castiel wakes up with a gasp, tangled in his sheets and covered in sweat. On the bedside table next to him, the radio buzzes pleasantly, the anchor talking about the latest efforts to recover the long lost prince.

After catching his breath, he reaches over to the side table and turns the noise off. The room is still in a way it almost never is considering he shares the room with three other boys. But none of them are currently in residence, their beds hastily made, their drawers half open with clothes spilling out. Castiel suspects that they accidentally left the radio on as well. They all must have overslept.

Castiel has no idea if they tried to wake him or not. Years of living practically on top of each other have taught each of them that Castiel is not a morning person. Nothing short of a bomb blast could get him out of bed most mornings. So it’s very possible that the three other boys--Ephraim, Ezekiel, and Daniel--had all left without even trying to rouse him.

The sun is high in the sky now, the warm light illuminating the floorboards in front of his bed. It must be closing in on lunch time, he thinks.

Mother Naomi is not going to be pleased.

Considering that he’s already incredibly late, Castiel takes his time getting up and getting dressed. He brushes his teeth until his gums bleed, washes his face thoroughly, and shaves the stubble off his jaw carefully and painstakingly. He gets dressed (plain white shirt, black dress pants, and his dress shoes), combs his hair, and then makes up his bed. Only after all of this does he quietly exit the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

He makes his way to the kitchens, hoping that the sister on duty will take enough pity on him to allow him the leftover coffee that is always in the pot before he has to go face the Mother Superior. As he thought, it’s almost time for lunch, and the kitchen is all abustle with the preparing of the meal. From the smell, Castiel can tell it’s going to be beef stew and he hopes that there’s fresh bread left over from this morning to go with it. Sister Rachel is the first one to spot him and she sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Good _afternoon_ , Castiel,” she chastises.

“It’s still morning,” he replies, seamlessly reaching for the coffee pot. Sister Rachel smacks his hand away with a wooden spoon.

“Barely,” she bites out. “Mother Naomi thought you’d come here first. You’re to see her directly.”

“All the more reason you should let me have a cup of coffee before I have to go face her.”

“Indulging you is not going to get you to correct your bad habits,” Rachel says, as if she’s quoting straight from the mouth of the Mother Superior.

“Please?” Castiel sighs. “I...didn’t sleep well.” He knows she can see it in his face: the circles under his eyes are so dark that he almost looks like he’s been punched in the face. He supposes he should be thankful that that’s not the case, but it’s a small comfort really.

“Nightmares, again?” she asks, stirring the pot of stew. She test-tastes a small amount, licks her lips, and then frowns. “Needs more garlic, I think,” she mutters.

“Same as always,” he answers her question as she breaks open three more cloves and chops them finely. She gives him one more long, evaluating look before she sighs and nods.

“Alright then. Just this once. But I have no milk or sugar to spare right now, so you’ll have to drink it black. And then it’s straight off to Mother Naomi with you.”

“Bless you, Sister Rachel.” She rolls her eyes at him but she doesn’t knock him away this time when he grabs hold of the coffee pot and pours the dregs into a mug. It’s lukewarm at this point, but Castiel’s used to that; this is certainly not the first time he’s crawled out of bed long after everyone else.

He holes himself up in the corner of the kitchen, sipping his coffee and staying out of the way. Once the mug is sadly empty, he washes it out carefully and perhaps a bit too slowly, because Sister Rachel bumps into him rather purposefully at the sink.

There’s nothing else to be done about it; it’s time to face Mother Naomi.                    

* * *

She answers almost immediately with a “come in,” when Castiel knocks on the door, but she doesn’t look up from her desk as he enters. He’s been here enough to know to just take a seat. Mother Naomi likes to make him wait, but considering how often he’s been sent to her for discipline it has no real affect on him anymore. It’s more comforting than anything else, really, just part of the routine. He taps his fingers on his knee with one hand and rests his head on the fist of the other one as he waits for Mother Naomi to finishing scratching away at the report in front of her.

Finally, she puts down her pen and sets aside the stack of papers. She folds her hands on her desk and gives him the patented ‘stern’ look that he’s sure they teach all Mother Superiors before they get their jobs.

“Castiel,” she greets.

“Mother Naomi,” he nods.

“Surely you know why I’ve called you here.”

“I overslept,” Castiel admits. If possible, the look grows sterner.

“I’ve heard from the Abbot that you’ve missed your morning classes five times in the past month alone. And you’ve been tardy six times.”

“I know, Mother.”

“I would like to take this moment to remind you that your continued stay at St. Ambrose’s hinges on your attendance at the seminary.”

“I _know_ , Mother.” She never lets him forget.

“Then I cannot understand why you are still missing in your morning classes. You never seem to have trouble getting up on Friday mornings, when it’s your turn to teach the children.”

That’s because teaching is the highlight of his week. Having grown up at the orphanage, Castiel has easily gained a rapport with the children. He knows what they’re going through, after all. And he knows what it means to have an adult who understands and who actually listens. All day, every day, these children are told where to go, what to do, and how to behave. If his lessons give them even the smallest respite from that so they can express themselves, then his work is worthwhile. So on Fridays, regardless of nightmares, Castiel always gets up. He’ll have approximately three cups of coffee at breakfast to be anywhere near coherent enough to teach, but he’ll be up and be awake.

“Fridays are...different,” Castiel hedges.

“Castiel, if you no longer have plans to pursue the priesthood--”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Castiel cuts her off. “I do. But the nightmares…”

“You’ve had nightmares since you arrived here, Castiel, I fail to see why they should impede you to such a point now that you are incapable of showing up for class.”

“They’re getting worse, Mother.” Castiel clenches and unclenches a fist as he remembers the vague images of fire and smoke, fear and burnt skin. Mother Naomi sighs.

“God will help guide all his servants through their trials,” she condescends.

“God has _nothing_ to do with it.”

Mother Naomi simply raises one eyebrow, arching it into the top of her habit. She knows that Castiel will get to his point in his own time. He swallows, thickly.

“I’ve been thinking of taking a leave of absence. I’d like to go to Eden.”

“I take it you want to go hunting for your parents?” Mother Naomi says, her voice dismissive. Castiel pulls at the chain around his neck, bringing the locket that always lays against his heart out into the open.

“They’re out there, somewhere. And this is the only clue I have.”

“Castiel, it’s been ten years. Ten years and we’ve not once had a single inquiry for a boy of your age that matched your description. Eden is a long way away. You did not just wander off and hit your head. This...hope you hold onto, that they’re out there, waiting for you, ready to welcome you home with open arms, is detrimental. You need to let go. Trust in God, trust in his plan, trust in him to take care of you, because he is the only one who has been there for you all your life.” Castiel takes a deep breath.

“I know the likelihood of them still being alive is slim. But I still need to find out what happened to them, what happened to me. There is this part of me that’s...missing. It’s all blank before I came here and while I remember bits and pieces, images and scents and sounds, I have no idea what any of it means. And I don’t think I’ll ever get the nightmares to stop, no matter how much trust in God I have, until I know everything I can about the boy you found on the side of the road. I need closure.” Mother Naomi frowns and shakes her head, just like she has every other time Castiel has attempted to bring up the topic.

“I don’t pretend to understand your constant desire to live in the past. But if it’s what you really want, then I can’t stop you.” Castiel’s eyes widen in shock.

“What?” he all but chokes out.

“In fact, at this point, I almost think it would be beneficial for you. It would finally give you a chance to sow your wild oats.”

“I’m trying to find my family, not pick someone up in a bar,” he protests, but Naomi ignores him. She grabs a fresh sheet of paper and picks up her pen again.

“If it’s what you really want, Castiel,” she says as she starts to address a letter right in front of him, “then I shall talk to the Abbot on your behalf.” And that, more than anything, leaves Castiel absolutely gobsmacked.

“Thank you, Mother Naomi,” he finally says after opening and closing his mouth several times.

“If the Abbot approves the request, you should be relinquished of all duties by the end of Friday,” she says, her attention already focused elsewhere. She waves him away. “You may go now.”                                                                            

* * *

There isn’t much to pack—growing up in an orphanage and then entering seminary school does not allow for personal items to accumulate.

There are his clothes: a couple pairs of pants, four dress shirts, pajamas, a smattering of underclothes, two pairs of shoes, and one trench coat, found in the second hand donation bin and the only coat that fit him, as tall and broad across the shoulders as he is.

There are a couple pictures: the children he teaches, the nuns who have known him and cared for him for ten years: snapshots of small, happy moments that he treasures. There’s a group shot from last year’s Christmas celebration, everyone dressed in their best clothing, lined up against the long banquet table. Castiel is there too, standing on the end, smiling pleasantly at the camera.

He owns three books in total: a holy bible, a book about beekeeping, and a dime store romance novel that he smuggled home one day when he was sent out to retrieve some supplies from the nearby town of Lawrence.

There are a few more keepsakes he’s gathered over the years: a bird whittled from a piece of wood that a friend gave him before he left the orphanage, adopted by a loving family, a couple drawings the younger children have gifted him in his tenure as their teacher, a dark blue mug, chipped on the handle, that he simply forgot to bring back down to the kitchen to be washed, and the first lumpy, uneven scarf he made after he learned how to knit.

But all in all, it’s able to be packed up in one army green duffle bag (also second hand) in less than an hour on Friday afternoon, after lessons let out for the day.

Down at the entrance, Castiel is greeted with a gaggle of nuns, Sister Rachel and Mother Naomi among them. They flock forward, giving hugs and kisses to his forehead, well wishes and advice, instructing him to call the moment he gets to Eden so that they know he’s safe. Sister Rachel stands off to the side, waiting and misty eyed, her mouth drawn into a tight line, like it’s the only thing keeping all her emotions in. Having said their goodbyes, the nuns scurry off. Sister Rachel steps forward.

“You come back to us in one piece, young man,” she says with an exaggerated sniff.

“That is the plan,” he replies with a small smile. She reaches forward and gives him a tight hug, before presenting him with a small, wrapped bundle.

“I made some extra bread for you to take with you. It’s not much, but it should sustain you until you reach town.”

Fondness wells up in Castiel’s heart until his chest feels full to bursting. “Thank you, Sister Rachel.” He kisses her cheek.

“Safe travels and God bless you, Castiel.” She smiles, smoothes out his unruly hair, and nods before heading back towards the kitchen. With her exit, it is just Castiel and Mother Naomi standing in the entryway.

“Goodbye, Mother Naomi,” Castiel says with a small nod.

“Castiel.” She frowns, shifts her weight from foot to foot. Castiel waits. “I wrote to the bishop on your behalf.”

“Oh?” He’s floored, really. He’d always been under the impression that Naomi didn’t like him all that much. He can’t blame her—he didn’t exactly work hard to change her opinion. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“I told him of your mission and he has produced some...funds. To help you travel.” She produces a small envelope and presents it to Castiel.

“Oh,” Castiel takes it from her hesitantly. “That’s...very kind. Very unexpected.”

“It isn’t much,” she says. “Just a small amount. I hope it helps.”

“I’m sure it will, Mother. Please, pass along my thanks to the bishop.” He picks up his bag and heads towards the door.

“Castiel,” she says, stopping him once more. “I have enclosed the address of a colleague of mine. He is the priest of a church in Eden. Should you require it, he will help you in any way he can.”

Castiel smiles at her, touched and grateful. “Thank you very much.”

“I will pray for you.” And it’s as much a fond farewell as he’ll get from her, he knows.

“Godspeed, Mother Naomi.” The door opens without a sound but the porch steps creak under his weight. He walks down the driveway until he reaches the road. He gives a glance over his shoulder looking at the compound where he has lived for the past ten years. In one of the upper rooms a couple small faces are pressed against the glass of the window. Castiel gives them a small little wave, gets enthusiastic flailing of limbs in return. He turns down the road and begins to walk the way towards Lawrence, the nearest town.

St. Ambrose’s does have a car, but there is only the one. It’s reserved for emergencies and for when they make their weekly trip into town to run errands on Saturdays. As much as he would have appreciated a ride into town, he doesn’t mind walking. It’s only five miles and the day is fine, warm and sunny.

He hitches his bag over his shoulder, and begins his journey.                                                                

* * *

By the time Castiel reaches Lawrence, it’s dark outside and, having only been in the town a handful of times in the daylight, it’s no surprise that he’s lost. The town itself isn’t that big--there’s a Main Street that runs right through the middle of it and when Castiel had come with the nuns or the monks or anyone from St. Ambrose’s, that is where the car had parked. The shops along that street are clean and tidy, their window displays bright and inviting. Neat lettering signs every doorway with shop names and there’s no doubt about where you are.

It hasn’t always been that way. Castiel can clearly remember the first time he came to Lawrence, Sister Rachel leading him down the street by the hand--although she was just a novitiate back then. Most of the windows were boarded up and there were glass shards along the sidewalk that still hadn’t been swept up. Certain buildings were blackened with ash and soot, damaged by fire. Castiel had wandered the town with feelings that crossed between horror and awe.

Lawrence was certainly not spared by the riots ten years ago, although Main Street had gotten fairly lucky. In the worse parts of town, whole blocks burned to the ground, the small fire department unable to keep up the with numerous flames. The train tracks had been ripped up and destroyed, making it impossible for people to leave or for help to enter. There was fighting and violence, multiple people dying, many other wounded. Once the alarm had sounded, the nuns had gone into town to help the injured and keep the peace. They were on their way home when they found him, bloody and bruised, lost in the woods, unable to remember who he was.

It had taken a while for the town to rebuild, for the whole country to deal with the consequences and the weight of what happened that night. And while Main Street was light and bright, all fresh coats of paint and lit up streets, the place where Castiel has wandered into is not. The ramshackle, boarded up buildings looked one strong breeze away from falling over. The street lights, for the most part, were all out, except for one a ways down that would occasionally decide flicker to life before the power would cut out once more.

Castiel hunched his shoulders up and dug his hands further into his pockets as he walked. There was no one else on the street, but even if there had been, Castiel wasn’t naive enough to want to ask them for directions. He had no other options except to keep moving and hope that he didn’t attract attention.

As he walked past one of the only lit up buildings on the street, his path was interrupted by the door swinging open and a man being thrown out onto the sidewalk directly in front of him by a woman.

“If I see you around here again, Walt, I’ll shoot you myself,” she snarls. The man scrambles to his feet, brings himself up to full height. He spits at the woman’s feet.

“Like I’d be caught dead in your damn awful bar, Ellen,” he walks off without another word, weaving and swaying as he goes, clearly drunk. The woman--Ellen, Castiel supposes--rounds on him, fixing him with a hard stare.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” Castiel shakes his head emphatically. She looks him up and down, taking in his pressed slacks, smart shoes, and trench coat.

“You lost or something, Blue Eyes?”

“No,” he replies immediately.

The woman huffs. “Sure you’re not. Well, come on in,” she steps back, welcoming Castiel through the doorway with a small wave of her arm, “before you get robbed or something.”

“Oh that’s not--”

“I don’t ask twice.” He hesitates for just a moment, but he figures that it can’t hurt, at this point. So he steps through the door and into the bar. It looks as run down as the rest of the block, but there’s a certain warmth and charm to it. It is moderately full for a Friday night, two men in the corner playing pool, a couple women perched on bar stools. Everyone is clothed in denim and plaid, worn and frayed and faded. Castiel stands out like a sore thumb as he steps up to the bar. There’s a petite blonde woman behind it, young and around Castiel’s age, her shirt tied off around her waist, exposing her midriff.

Ellen slips behind the bar to join her, lays a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

“Get this man a beer.”

“Oh, please, you don’t need to do that,” Castiel protests because he really can’t afford it. What little money he does have is to get him to Eden.

“It’s on the house, hun. Don’t you worry about it. You look like you could use it.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly, wrapping his hand around the glass as the blonde woman slides it towards him.

“You don’t look like you’re from our neck of the woods,” the girl says with a raised eyebrow.

“No. I...I’m afraid that I took a wrong turn somewhere. I was actually trying to find the train station.”

Ellen laughs. “Well you’re certainly on the wrong end of town for that.”

Castiel flushes, chagrined. “I noticed.”

“I’m Ellen Harvelle,” she introduces herself. “I own this joint. And this is my daughter Jo.” She gestures to the blonde, who gives him a nod and a smile before ducking out to bus some tables.

“Castiel,” he offers his hand to shake. Ellen raises her eyebrows at the name.

“Churchy folks?” She asks as she grabs his hand and Castiel blushes.

“Churchy orphanage,” he corrects.

“You’re one of St. Ambrose’s?” He nods. “You’re a long way from home then, preacher.”

“Not a preacher. Not yet, at least.”

“Having second thoughts?” He shakes his head.

“No. Not really. I just…”

He can’t help himself, then. It all comes out, the whole sad story: the nuns finding him on the side of the road, not remembering anything about his past, growing up in the orphanage and never being adopted, never wanting to be adopted, just in case his real family ever found him. He tells her about the locket he has, how it’s the only clue he’s got to his family. He wants to go to Eden to find them, knows that it’s probably a lost cause, but he needs to do it or else he’ll feel like a coward.

By the end of his story, Castiel is sure that Ellen Harvelle is some sort of saint. He’s unburdened now, lighter than he’s been in years. The uncertainty of the future still weighs on him, but the past no longer seems like a weight that’s dragging him down, holding him in place. It’s something he can pick up and take with him as he goes; he can’t ever really leave it behind, but it’s not anchoring him to Lawrence, to St. Ambrose’s.

“That’s quite a story,” Ellen remarks, her expression hard to read (although that could be because Castiel has never been one to easily pick up on the nuances of body language).

“It’s true,” Castiel tells her, insistent.

“Never said it wasn’t, boy.” Her stare bores into him, face inscrutable, until finally she asks, “How much money you got?”

Castiel blinks. That is not what he expected.

“I, uh, actually don’t know,” he says, sheepishly, his cheeks ruddy. He reaches into the pocket of his trench coat and pulls out the envelope that Mother Naomi gave him. He opens it now, exposing the cash to the bar-owner, spread it out in front of them both. The piece of paper tucked inside flutters out of the envelope as well and Castiel grabs it quickly, before it gets lost.

In Mother Naomi’s tight cursive script is written the name of the Father Joshua Gardiner. There’s an address and a phone number as well. He carefully folds it up and tucks it back into the envelope.

Ellen’s counting his money, quick and efficient and she plops it back onto the bar when she’s done.

“Well the good news is that this’ll get you about halfway to Eden, if you don’t mind traveling third class.”

Castiel shrugs. “I never expected it to take me the whole way. While the bishop was incredibly generous to provide me with some funds, I am perfectly capable of making my way without it.”

Ellen laughs softly, shakes her head, amused. “Hell, kid, I have no doubt that you’d walk there if you had to. Only problem is that I’m pretty sure you’d get mugged and beaten, if not killed, long before you stepped foot anywhere near the capital.”

Castiel knows she’s probably right, but that doesn’t stop the indignant anger from welling up in his stomach. His whole body tenses, raring for a fight and Ellen holds up one hand as a gesture to calm him down.

“Now I know someone heading the same way as you, although not on half so good a cause. Last I heard, he was still looking for a traveling companion. If you want to stick around a while, I’ll give him a call.”

The fight goes out of him immediately.

“That’s...thank you,” he murmurs, almost contrite. Ellen responds by pulling out two shot glasses, quickly pouring tequila into them. She nudges one to Castiel and he takes it, placing his fingers delicately around it, before knocking it back all in one go, wincing slightly, unused to the taste.

“Hey Jo,” Ellen calls out, “Keep an eye on Castiel, here. I’m gonna go give Dean a call real quick.” Both the blonde girl’s eyes widen in surprise, but she gives her mother a little salute anyways as she sidles back over to the bar.

“Can I get you another drink?” she asks him.

Castiel shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

“You sure? Because trust me, you’re probably going to need it.”


	3. Chapter 2

“So you pinch it here,” Jo instructs him, guiding the knife between his thumb and index finger. “Yeah that’s it, line your thumb up with the blade.” The grip feels awkward, the cool metal slipping through his sweaty fingers. Jo pokes him in the side.

“Relax. Loosen up a bit.”

“I just don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“There isn’t anyone to hurt.” She waves her arm around at the now empty bar to demonstrate her point. A couple hours ago, it had been bustling. Now though, most people have slunk home, drunk enough to face the day tomorrow. There’s only one other man in the place besides them, tall and gangly with a blonde mullet, and he’s currently fast asleep on the pool table. Jo says that that’s just Ash, so Castiel can only assume that it’s normal behavior and not something to be concerned about. “Besides, these knives aren’t even that sharp.”

“If you say so.”

“Alright now, keep your arm straight, bend your elbow back,” she commands, guiding his arm through the motion, “and now snap it forward and let the knife go as you do.” Castiel does, the knife soaring through the air and hitting the wall with a clank before dropping to the ground.

“I take it that’s not what’s supposed to happen.” Jo laughs.

“Dude, it’s your first try. You’re bound to screw it up.” Castiel shrugs.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You gotta keep your wrist straight too, or else you’ll send the knife off course,” she tells him. “See?” She demonstrates, sending a knife into the wall with a ‘thwump’, the handle vibrating slightly after impact. She presses the last of her three throwing knives into his hand.

“Try again?” He nods.

He fumbles a little, trying to get a good grip on it. He bends his elbow back and forth, keeping hold of the knife, just trying to get used to the motion he needs to make. Finally he rears back, bending his arm, before he snaps it forward. His aim is true this time and the knife embeds itself into the wall right next to Jo’s. Jo grins up at him, her smile wide and excited.

“See? Told you it wasn’t hard.” Castiel can’t help smiling back.

“Your mom know you’re putting holes in the wall of her bar?” Calls out a male voice from behind them and both Jo and Castiel whirl around. The man glances at Castiel quickly before he turns to Jo, grinning widely, eyes sparkling. “What? No hello?”

Jo huffs. “ _Hello_. About time you showed up here. Mom called you hours ago. We’ve been waiting.”

He shrugs. “I was busy. Besides, you seem to have kept yourselves entertained.” He steps forward now, extending his hand to Castiel. “Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel,” he says.

Dean whistles, low and quiet. “That’s quite the name. Did your parents hate you or something?”

“That’s very possible, considering I was abandoned when I was ten,” Castiel says, matter of fact. Dean’s eyes bug out of his head at the admission and Jo snickers at his discomfort. Castiel takes pity on him. “But as for my name, one of the nuns came up with it.” It was, in fact, Sister Rachel who had offered up the suggestion. Back when Castiel had first arrived, nameless, homeless, penniless, there’d been a small debate about what to call him. Castiel had spent the first couple weeks responding to a variety of different names, the nuns hoping one of them might spark his memory.

None of them ever did.

Eventually it became less about him remembering and more about him finding something he’d like to be called. Sister Rachel had given him the idea. They’d found him on a Thursday after all. She thought it might be nice to honor the angel that was clearly looking out for him.

It was strange and unusual and Castiel _liked_ it. Liked it more than John and Michael, James and David. He felt like a person then, rather than one of many.

“Right,” Dean says, still looking a little sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He meets Castiel’s’ eyes and Castiel can’t look away. Neither can Dean, apparently, because Jo has to cough a minute later to get them to look away.

“Ellen said you can help me get to Eden?” Castiel prompts, trying to get the conversation back on track. And just like that, Dean straightens up, expression changing to one that clearly means business.

“Yeah, I might.” He nods his head over to the bar, and the two of them take a seat. “Me and my brother are taking a bit of a road trip, heading over to Eden. And I can’t say there’s a lot of room in my baby, but we do have a little bit of space for one more person.”

“I can pay you,” Castiel offers. “I don’t have a lot--Ellen says it’s not even enough to get me halfway to Eden by train, but it’s yours if you want it.” Dean shakes his head.

“I don’t want your money, Cas. You can keep it. Sounds like you need it more than I do.”

“You can’t possibly be willing to take me along out of the kindness of your heart.” Castiel may have grown up sheltered, but he isn’t completely foolish. Dean looks a little embarrassed at the accusation but he doesn’t deny it.

“You’ve heard of Prince James, right?”

“I lived in an orphanage, not under a rock. Of course I know who he is.”

“Well then you also know that his sister’s still looking for him.” It’s sad, really. Castiel, like most of the nation, is sure the prince is dead. But every so often, the rumors pick up again--an old woman claims that she saw him in a bookshop or a man swears up and down that he is the lost prince, that he’s been hiding for his own safety. The princess rushes out to investigate, but always comes home alone.

Castiel knows what it feels like to be hanging onto hope for too long, knows how crushing disappointment is, even when you’re expecting it. With every tale of a new clue to be had, every news story covering Princess Hannah’s ever increasing reward for information leading to her brother, Castiel’s heart goes out to her.

She’s never going to find him and Castiel thinks, perhaps, she knows this. But closure is an elusive, tempting beast and he can’t fault her for her wanting it. If he did, he’d be a hypocrite.

“Well, I’m going to find him,” Dean says, and Castiel blinks, confused.

“The prince is dead,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a small child. Dean rolls his eyes.

“I know that. But _she_ doesn’t.”

And then the pieces all fall into place and Castiel’s mouth drops open in horror. “You can’t mean--?”

“Well I figure she’s more likely to give me a reward for a living, breathing human being than she is for a corpse,” Dean remarks flippantly.

“But that’s—that’s fraud!” Castiel protests.

“It is,” Dean shrugs. “My heart isn’t exactly breaking for her. She gets to sit in her palace, surrounded by servants and luxury, waited on hand and foot, while the rest of us toil and work and can barely scrape enough money to get by. That revolt was supposed to help us, was supposed to make a difference. But where I’m sitting, the poor are still poor and the rich are still rich. If this is what I have to do to lift me and my brother out of the gutter, then I have no qualms about cheating some stuck up royal out of money she’s not gonna miss.”

“And the emotional cost--what of that? Just because she’s a princess doesn’t mean she isn’t desperate for answers.”

“That’s not my problem. She’ll probably just wipe her tears away with dollar bills. Hopefully the whole mess will get her to move on. I could be doing her a favor, you never know.” Castiel shakes his head.

“No. I want no part of this.”

“Fine by me, kiddo. We can part ways right now. But the fact remains that there’s only room for one in my baby and that spot’s going to Prince James. Now it could be you or it could be some other schmuck who has less scruples, I don’t give a damn. But if you’re just wasting my time, I’d like to know now. There are plenty of other people out there I could be talking to.”

Castiel wants to tell Dean to fuck off, he really really does. But he can’t deny that this is his best bet of getting to Eden. This may not be the most honest option, but it is the safest. So he swallows down his righteousness and his sense of morals.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he chokes out, disappointed in himself. Dean startles, eyes going wide before his mouth twists into an expression that’s half disbelief and annoyance. Clearly, he thought Castiel would never say yes.

It almost makes agreeing to this whole mess worth it.

* * *

 

Dean leads Castiel out of the bar and into his ‘baby’, a black behemoth of a car he is informed is called an Impala. Dean preens over the car, patting her hood before opening the passenger door for him to get into.

“It’s going to be a long journey, but at least we’re riding in style,” he explains with a grin. Castiel doesn’t get in the car right away though. Instead he looks Dean up and down before giving the car a considering look, his head cocked to the side. Dean’s brow furrows slightly, confused.

“Huh,” he says at last and then crawls into the behemoth of a car.

“What?” Dean asks warily, like he knows he’s going to regret it.

“You’re fairly large and average everywhere else. I never would have thought that you of all people would need to overcompensate for a small penis.” Dean sputters, flushes bright red in anger, in embarrassment. Castiel leans forward and pulls the car door out of Dean’s hand and shuts it. Grunting, Dean’s only option is walking around to the other side of the car and getting in the driver’s seat.

The car rumbles to life with the turn of a key and immediately, loud music blares from the old speakers. Castiel startles at the sudden noise and there’s no doubt in his mind, from the smirk on Dean’s face, that Dean notices. The man reaches for the sound system and turns the volume up more before putting the car in gear and stepping on the gas. They rip out of the parking lot, tires screeching.

Castiel’s surprised when instead of going further into the underbelly of town, they’re actually heading away from it. The skyline fades into the distance becoming twinkling lights in the rear view mirror. Ahead of them are fields and trees, but not ones he’s familiar with. They’re going the opposite direction from the way he came, away from the orphanage.

They stay on the side streets, winding through the woods slowly but surely. The farther they get away from civilization, the more uncomfortable Castiel gets. He hasn’t been back in the woods since he was found, but it’s making him uneasy. Seeing the trees block out the sky, close in around him, makes him feel claustrophobic, like he’s never going to get out again. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and leans against the window. He can feel Dean’s piercing gaze on him but he chooses to ignore, focusing instead on steadying his breathing.

In and out. In. Out.

He opens his eyes slowly, feeling a bit more centered. The treeline has loosened and he can see the stars twinkling faintly between leaves and branches. Along the horizon, Castiel can see the telltale orange stripe that indicates the sun is rising, crawling into the sky.

They pull out of the woods into a clearing and right up next to a pretty run down looking shack. The brick is crumbling and off colored and there are holes in the roof. The paint on the door is chipped, the wood splintering in a couple places. But inside the window, Castiel can see soft white drapes pulled most of the way closed. There’s a candle burning in the window too, flickering in the pre-dawn light.

Dean turns the car off and the silence that rushes in in the wake of it is jarring. He had become used to the rumble of the engine as they had been traveling, had enjoyed how the noise had grounded him. Dean doesn’t say anything to him, just gets out of the car quickly and walks towards the door. Castiel supposes he should follow.

He unfolds himself out of the car, his legs cramped and unsteady, weary from all the activity he’s been put through today. He’s about to start after Dean when something catches in the corner of his eye and he turns to see it in full.

Behind them is the burned out, hollow shell of the old Summer Palace.

A chill runs up his spine at the sight of it, blackened and charred, lit up with the warm yellow sunrise. Uneasiness settles in his gut, but he finds he can’t look away. He swears he can hear the faint sound of screaming, of glass shattering, but it sounds so far away that he knows it can’t be real. It’s definitely eerie, a relic of the past that the entire country seems to want to forget. The longer he looks at it, the more it puts him on edge, the sound of screams still ringing softly in his ears. Despite all this, he’s drawn to the building, wants to walk towards it, see it up close. He almost feels possessed as he takes a step towards it, but Dean’s calls out to him, breaking the spell. He startles like a scared deer, jumping slightly, as he whirls around to give the other man his attention.

“You coming in or what, dude?”

“Yes,” he confirms. He has to fight the urge to turn back around, gaze at the building. Dean enters the house and, alone on the stoop, Castiel can’t help it; he has to look. It’s just a quick glance, over his shoulder, but the palace looms in the distance, even more dark and mysterious than before.

He shakes his head, trying to get dislodge whatever’s got him on high alert. But while the feeling fades slightly, it never goes away. Once he’s finally inside, Castiel makes sure that the door is shut tight.

Dean’s house is small but homey, lived in and loved. The entryway leads directly into a room that’s half lounge, half kitchen. There are bookshelves put together with mismatched wood, clearly whatever Dean could find lying around, that stretch up to the ceiling of the shack and each row is filled with neatly stacked books. The kitchen is tidy and neat: there’s a small stove and a large sink, a small fridge, and a rickety table with two chairs. There’s a vase on the table with two yellow flowers sticking out of it, bright and welcoming. But most importantly, Castiel can see a coffee maker on the counter.

Dean waves an arm in the direction of the kitchen table, telling him to sit and then he silently slips through the door next to the kitchen that can only lead to a bedroom.

He’s been awake for almost twenty four hours at this point and while he’s exhausted, he knows there’s no rest in his immediate future. Making coffee isn’t hard--he’s been doing it for years--but finding where Dean keeps it is another matter entirely. He peeks in the cupboards and finds plates and cups, bowls and mugs. In the drawers there is silverware, forks and knives. But coffee eludes him.

“Pantry’s on the other side of the stove,” Dean says and Castiel, already jittery from lack of sleep and the incident outside, can’t help the exaggerated flinch at the sound of Dean’s voice.

“I was just looking for coffee.”

Dean smirks at him, amused. “I figured.” He walks over to the small door next to the stove that Castiel hadn’t noticed before and rummages around in it for a moment before producing a small canister. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Castiel takes it from him, sets it on the counter.

“You want anything else to eat?” Dean asks him. Castiel’s stomach grumbles on cue, making him flush and Dean laugh, light and easy. “I’ll take that to be a yes, then.”

“It’s really not necessary,” Castiel says. “I don’t want to make you go out of your way.” Dean shrugs.

“I’m making some eggs for me and Sammy. It’s not that hard to make a third portion.”

“If you’re sure.” Castiel doesn’t want to be a bother. Besides, there’s something overly intimate about Dean making him breakfast when they’ve known each other less than twelve hours, when they don’t even like each other, really.

“Yeah, dude, I’m sure.” With coffee brewing and eggs sizzling on the stove, there’s nothing for Castiel to do but wait. He watches as Dean flits around the kitchen, popping into the pantry for herbs, pulling out a couple peppers and some cheese from the fridge. The coffee maker gurgles pleasantly on the counter. Here, in his element, Dean is relaxed. He’s lost all of the hard edge that he’d gained when they discussed business. As he watches Dean get their breakfast together, Castiel can’t help but think that, actually, Dean is quite pleasing to look at. He knows there’s no chance of anything happening, but he’s quite content to just watch him. It’s been too long, really, since he’s felt the stirrings of attraction roil in his gut and it’s a welcome change, takes his mind off the unease that’s settled in the tension in his shoulders.

They’re joined in the kitchen a couple minutes later by a tall, scruffy teenager. The boy sits at the table and rubs his eyes, yawning; sleep still hasn’t left him.

“Look who’s joined the land of the living,” Dean quips. The boy grunts back at him, still too sleepy to respond. A smile twitches at the corner of Castiel’s lips. The coffee finally ready, Dean places a mug in front of both Castiel and the boy.

“Oh thank god,” he says, bringing the hot liquid to his lips. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Cas, this is Sammy. Sammy, this is Cas.” Caffeine finally running through his veins, the boy grimaces.

“It’s just Sam, actually,” he says, offering his hand for a shake.

“Castiel.”

“Cas is our guy, Sam,” Dean says as he scrapes the eggs onto a plate. While the description is vague, Sam seems to know exactly what he’s talking about, because his gaze goes from friendly to critical in a matter of seconds. He can’t help but squirm under his stare. The boy may be young, but he’s definitely intense.

“I mean, he does have the look about him,” Sam finally says. Dean snickers.

“I know, right? Dude’s got the eyes, that’s for sure. You don’t see that kind of blue everywhere.” Castiel stiffens at this description, feeling like he’s some sort of animal on display.

“If you two are done judging me like a horse at auction,” Castiel snipes and Dean laughs. Sam at least has enough shame to look a bit sheepish, red faced.

“Eat your breakfast, Cas,” Dean says, plopping a plate down in front of him. Sam is served next and then Dean’s joining them at the table, pulling a stool out from God knows where to be able to sit.

“Sorry,” Sam offers. Castiel sighs.

“It’s fine. I’m being overly touchy. I’m just tired.” Sam gives him a cautious smile and Castiel can’t help but nod back at him.

“So where are you from, Cas?” he asks. And that is the question, isn’t it?

“I...don’t really know, to be perfectly honest,” he confesses. “I grew up at St. Ambrose’s. A group of nuns found me on the side of the road, bleeding, when I was ten years old. I can’t really remember anything before that.”

“Nothing?” Sam’s voice is interested, but not pitying and it’s almost refreshing.

“There are...flashes, I suppose. Mostly in dreams. Sometimes it’s an image, sometimes a sound. A smell. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a feeling in my gut. I may not remember it but I know that it’s something.”

Dean’s looking at him now, considering.

“And you’ve never wanted to go out and try to find out what happened?”

Castiel snorts. “Why do you think I want to go to Eden?”

“That’s a long way away to start looking,” Sam points out. Castiel thinks of the locket that lays against his heart, underneath his shirt. His hand twitches, itching to grab hold of it, but he refrains.

The locket is his and he doesn’t feel like sharing it with what amounts to basically two strangers.

“It’s a place to start,” he shrugs and goes back to picking at his eggs. “And what about you? Did you two grow up around here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, his face flushing. “Right here, actually. Our mom worked in the kitchens of the palace and our dad was a mechanic here.”

“Oh.” Castiel feels like he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. At least it explains the comments earlier about his eyes. “So you knew the prince, then?”

“Not really,” Sam says. “He didn’t play with us often, mostly kept to himself.”

“He liked to read,” Dean adds. He seems, to Castiel, to have been a lonely, quiet child and he can relate. It had been hard to adjust to having so many children about at the orphanage. Most of the children had been there since birth, their mother’s dying or giving them up. Older kids like Castiel usually went to live with relatives instead of getting placed at St. Ambrose’s.  All the boys his age already knew each other, already were friends. Castiel was an interloper and one with no idea how to change that status. Even after more children came—and there was a rather large influx, in the wake of all the rioting—Castiel was always on the outside looking in.

The other boys liked running around and rough housing, games of tag and hide and go seek ever ongoing. Castiel preferred to observe the world around him, look at insects, at the dirt and the grass and the flowers. He read anything he could get his hands on about the natural world and plenty more about different topics when he’d exhausted the small amount of books that the orphanage housed. He was weird, a loner, and while there were plenty of times that he was bullied, that some other boy would steal his books or play a prank on him, he’d learned to stand up for himself. But fighting back against a boy with a lot of friends didn’t exactly make him popular.

“So your parents worked at the palace--what did they do after the coup?” He asks, tired of dwelling on his childhood. As soon as the words leave his mouth, there’s a sudden tension in the air and Castiel knows then that he’s said the wrong thing, asked the wrong question. Sam’s ducked his head down, his shaggy hair obscuring his face and Dean’s sitting there with a thunderous expression on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the silence. “That’s none of my business.” Clearly it’s something that the two boys don’t want to share, something painful. Dean shakes his head.

“No,” Dean croaks finally, his voice strained. “It’s just.” He has to take a deep breath, in and out, before he can continue.

“Mom died during the coup. She was stuck in the kitchens when the palace burned down. She didn’t get out. And Dad. Well, he stuck around for a few more years, dragged us all over as he pretended to look for work while he drank himself to death. It’s just been me and Sammy since then.” He reaches out, takes his brother’s hand from the table and gives it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, heartfelt and sincere. Dean shrugs it off.

“It’s...well it’s not fine, but it is what it is. Besides, we did okay for ourselves. Always managed to keep a roof over our heads, put food on the table.” Just what he did to accomplish those things is left unsaid, but Castiel is entirely sure that it wasn’t legal. “And Sammy here’s some sort of genius, always loved school. He even got into university.”

“Congratulations, Sam,” he says. Sam flushes, embarrassed but proud.

“Thanks.”

“And uh,” Dean continues. “That’s why we’re doing all this. So I can put Sammy through school.” Castiel wants to tell him that having good intentions doesn’t change the fact that what he’s doing is going to hurt people, but he holds his tongue. It’s not his place to judge, not when he’s complicit in the lie as well.

“It’s not ideal,” Sam chimes in, clearly more uncomfortable with the scheme than his brother. But clearly, it doesn’t bother him enough to back out. Castiel finds that he can’t really blame the boy. It sounds like he’s never really gotten the chance to be selfish; it’s no surprise that when the universe finally gave him something good, the one thing he’s always wanted, that he’d do anything to keep it.

“No, it certainly isn’t,” Castiel agrees. “But I can’t really criticize, can I?” Really, between the three of them, Sam and Dean’s reasoning is much more noble than Castiel’s.

He sips the rest of his coffee as Dean and Sam finish their meal. Sam gathers all the plates the second Dean’s fork is laid on the side, his plate completely empty, and sets about doing the dishes and Dean pushes his chair away from the table.

“Look, man, we’ve got some packing to do, still, and I need to grab some z’s before I’m ready to do anymore driving, so we’re gonna take the day, leave tomorrow morning. That okay with you?” Castiel nods his assent and Dean walks out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, leaving Sam and Castiel in the kitchen. Without Dean’s presence to distract him, the agitation from earlier builds back up. When he can’t take it anymore, he gets up and heads for the door. Sam makes no indication that he notices, that he ares.

“I’m, uh, going to take a walk,” he says, because it feels like the polite thing to do. He gets no response as he slips out of the little home, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

In the distance the half burnt palace still looms. This time, Castiel does not ignore it’s call. Without a moment’s hesitation, he sets off towards it, climbing the hill. He’s not entirely sure what it is about the place, but he can no longer resist its siren’s call.

* * *

 

The palace—or at least, the shell of it--is still. Too still. Each movement he makes echoes through the empty halls and corridors. There’s nothing left on the walls at this point but ash and old paint, burn marks from where the flames licked the walls, and holes from where it burned through. Looters, Castiel knows, had gone through the place in the immediate aftermath of the fire and nothing of value has been left behind. Even the door handles have been removed.

He goes where his feet take him, but never once does he get turned around. Each room fades into the next, bedrooms and bathrooms, parlors and libraries with empty shelves. Castiel spends more time in the last one, running his hands over scorched, sturdy wood.

Eventually he winds up in the large hall in the center of the palace. The roof is burned through and collapsed in many sections, letting the early morning sunlight in to light up the room. His footsteps reverberate off the empty walls, echoing as he moves forward. The noise unsettles a group of crows, who fly off through a hole in the roof, cawing the entire time. A chill goes down Castiel’s spine as the building returns to stillness.

There were people here, once, he thinks. People who had lives, who were happy. And all that’s left of that time is a few bits of burnt wood and broken windows. And one day, even that will cease to be. Time erodes all and even the history books won’t remember this place, won’t remember what happened here.

It’s sad—events don’t matter at all unless someone’s there to remember it, to write it down or tell it to the next person. How many important moments have been lost to time that they’ll never know about? And, on a smaller scale, how many things will he never discover about himself? Even if he does find out what happened to his family—and he’s well aware that he may not—it will probably only be the bare bones, the basic facts. It will only be half a picture, what other people will have decided are the important details.

It won’t be the same as remembering himself.

On the far wall, at the end of the hall, the remnants of a portrait of the prince and the princess hang on the wall. Honestly, he’s amazed that someone hasn’t torn it down by now. But it’s still there, the frame warped and tarnished by heat and time and the painting itself melted and cracked, burned away completely in other spots. What remains is half the princess’s face—just one eye, her cheekbone, and the left side of her brown hair curling down and framing her face—and the face of the lost prince.

The boy is looking up at his sister, his expression filled with love, his lips parted but smiling. His eyes are blue and wide, his hair dark and smooth, and good god, the Winchesters were right. He sees those eyes, that face in the mirror every morning.

He’s struck dumb.

There are no public portraits of the young prince. Most of them burned with the palace and the government has kept the rest locked up tight. There’s a lot at stake in recovering the lost prince. No one wants to make it easier out there for the pretenders to impersonate him. So Castiel has never known, not really, what the boy looked like, not until now.

The resemblance is uncanny.

But resemblance is all it is. It can’t be anything more than that.

Can it?

 


	4. Chapter 3

Castiel would be lying if he said that spending an extended amount of time in a car with both of the Winchesters wasn’t intimidating. But Sam and Dean loaded up the car with an ease that implied that it was definitely not the first time they were doing something like this. Their bags went in the trunk and then they were climbing into the big metal beast, Dean in the driver’s seat, Sam in the passenger’s. Castiel had no other choice but to get into the back.

“You’re not concerned about leaving your home unattended for such a long time?” Castiel asks as they pull away from the small cottage. Dean shrugs.

“Ellen or Jo’ll check up on it from time to time, make sure no one’s busted it up. But no one really comes out here, Castiel. They’re all too scared.” ‘Of the palace’ is left unsaid but Castiel can’t help but pick up on it.

He’s not surprised. In the days after the revolt, anyone who even so much as looked like they sympathized with the royals was beaten and killed. And while things are no longer nearly as drastic, it can’t be denied: the monarchy isn’t exactly popular.

Problem is, Castiel thinks, it’s not really the monarchy that’s at fault. In the wake of the revolt, the monarchy lost its absolute power. There are two chambers of legislation now, one filled with representatives of those who had held the power before, and one of the workers who rose up to protest their oppression. And while it’s true that Princess Hannah signs all the bills into law, the legislature has barely given her anything to sign. The two groups hate each other, almost never agree about anything. The Princess has remained a mediating influence between the two groups, but even her success is limited.

The government is at a bit of a standstill--almost nothing has changed except for the shift in the power vacuum. There’s been no relief for those in need, no help for those who ask for it. Dean is right in his indignation, in his frustration, in his fury. Castiel can admit that much. But the monarchy is not what that deserves his ire.

Still, no one wants to look like they’re clinging to the old ways, especially since there’s been a whole fresh wave of anti-royal sentiment.

Dean reaches over to the radio, flicks it on. Immediately the car is filled with loud, roaring rock music and Castiel winces at the volume. Sam looks unfazed—this is definitely not the first time that Dean’s done this. Dean chuckles.

“What Cas, you not a classic rock fan?” He calls out. Castiel shakes his head ‘no’. Sam rolls his eyes but reaches forward to turn down the volume. “Oh come on, Sammy.”

“We’re in a car, Dean,” Sam says. “There’s no reason to make it so we have to shout at each other. Besides, if I’m stuck listening to your music for this entire trip, the least you can do is not turn me deaf.”

“Hey, you know the rules. Driver picks the music--”

“Shotgun shuts his cake hole, yes I know,” Sam says, his lips pursed. Castiel bites his lip to prevent a smile from overtaking his face. The banter between the two of them is endearing.

“Then quit complaining, sasquatch,” Dean says, turning the music back up, but not quite as loud as it had been before. It’s a compromise.

They take a windy, twisty road back out of the woods, the same one they took when Dean brought Castiel home. In the daylight (even with what little there is of it), it’s not nearly as intimidating. The sunlight peeks through the branches, warm and soft, showing the cracks and crevices of the forest as the trees reach for the sky. Coming out of the forest feels like a new start.

“How long will it take to reach Eden?” he asks, finally, once they clear the woods and are out in the open fields again.

“Couple of weeks, depending on how often we stop,” Dean says. He’s driving one handed now, left hand on the steering wheel, right hand tapping on his thigh along to the beat of the music. He’s calm and controlled and Castiel has no doubt that behind the wheel of this car, Dean feels at home.

“Surely we won’t be stopping often, though?”

“Well, I don’t know about you Cas, but us Winchesters need to eat and sleep. And we need money to do those things.”

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Sam chimes in. “Dean’s great at hustling pool. And poker. These things just take time.”

“And we have to stop over in Lebanon, first,” Dean adds. “Charlie’s got a whole bunch of intel for us on our dear lost prince.” Castiel feels a stab of guilt in his heart when the prince is brought up, a fresh reminder of what he’s agreed to do. He pushes the feelings back, but just barely.

“What kind of intel?”

“Birthdays, family background, well known information. Stuff for you to study up on before we meet with the princess.” Castiel goes stiff in his seat.

“No one ever mentioned anything about being tested,” he hisses. Dean snorts.

“What, did you think you’d walk right up to the princess and she’d believe you were her brother? Yeah, the world doesn’t work like that, kiddo.”

“So what happens if I don’t pass these tests?”

“Well I imagine that we’ll all get arrested. So you better study up, buttercup, or we’ll be rotting in a jail cell for the rest of our lives.” Dean presses on the gas pedal, urging the car along faster. Castiel sinks back into the seat and curls his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

“And this Charlie? The information he’ll give us will be accurate?”

Sam laughs. “Dude, she’s gonna be so pissed you assumed she was a dude.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says with a smile, “the intel’ll be good. Charlie’s the best there is for this kind of thing.”

* * *

As a town, Lebanon appears to be very similar to Lawrence. At least from the little of it that Castiel actually sees. They drive through the center of town, but don’t turn off or stop to go near any of the lit up shops or restaurants. It’s a pity really, as Castiel’s stomach has begun to grumble at the thought of food. It’s almost lunchtime now and he really wouldn’t mind getting to go to a restaurant where they could sit down and be waited on, even if it would cost them a bit more money.

Instead they follow the main street until they reach the outskirts of town. They pull off onto a dirt road that leads up to a small hill, on top of which appears to be an abandoned factory of some sort. Dean doesn’t pull up to the front door, though, and steers the car around the back.

There’s a built up brick and concrete entrance there, a steel door barring their way in.

“We’re here,” Sam announces unnecessarily and Dean cuts the ignition on the car. They open their doors, the hinges squeaking at the motion. It’s warm enough outside that Castiel removes his jacket, leaving it in the back seat. He takes a moment to stretch out his back and shoulders, reaching his hands high above his head. The movement causes his shirt to ride up, but he’s too glad to finally be out of the car after four hours to care. He tilts his face towards the sun, soaking up the light and the warmth, and takes a deep breath. He holds it for a second before he lets it out, centered at last. When he glances at the brothers, Sam’s already waiting by the entrance but Dean is standing on the opposite side of the car, a dumbfounded look on his face.

Puzzled, Castiel frowns, cocking his head to one side.

“Is everything okay, Dean?” Dean flushes although Castiel can’t possibly fathom why.

“Fine. Everything’s fine!” he insists before turning on his heel and joining Sam at the door. Castiel has no choice but to follow.

Once they’re all together, Sam reaches out and knocks on the door. The metal clangs with the impact, _bang, bang, bang_ and then there’s silence. They don’t have to wait too long before they hear a muffled, yet clear woman’s voice on the other side.

“Password?”

Dean makes an unpleasant noise in the back of his throat. It startles Castiel. “C’mon Charlie. It’s us.”

“ _Password_ ,” the voice insists.

“I’m not doing any of your Harry Potter shit, Charlie, just open the damn door.”

“No password, no entry.”

“Fine,” Dean bites out. “‘Dean is my handmaiden’. Which is totally not true by the way.”

Next to his brother, Sam snorts and tries, but fails to keep an amused smirk off his face. There’s the loud clunk of a lock opening and then the door is creaking open towards them, revealing a short, red-haired girl grinning up at them. Castiel assumes this is Charlie.

“Uh yeah, you totally are,” she greets them. Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s also the first one to step forward and give her a hug.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, Bradbury. I’m a knight.”

“Excuse you, the Queen has spoken. Handmaiden,” she quips. She moves on from Dean to give Sam a hug. “What’s up, bitches?”

“How’d you know it was us?” Sam asks.

“Psh,” she scoffs, “this is me we’re talking about. I’m just _that_ _good_.”

Dean can’t help but snort. “What she means, Sammy, is that the Men of Letters have this place monitored up the wazoo. I’m sure they knew the second that we were within a mile of the bunker.” Charlie sighs, put upon.

“Okay, you got me, Dorothy told me when you guys pulled up, so I went to man the door.” She pushes the door open wider. “Come on in, I’ll go get you guys what you came for.” All three of them move through the door, Castiel bringing up the rear. Charlie gives him a smile as he passes her and falls in line next him.

“So since Dean has no manners whatsoever, I’m Charlie.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he replies, polite. “I’m Castiel.”

“Not gonna lie, dude. I’m more than a little impressed. Dean picked a good one--you’re totally dreamy.” In front of them, Dean comes to a sudden stop and they have no choice but to walk into him. All three of them fall to the floor, arms and legs tangled up. Sam, the only who didn’t fall, can’t help but laugh as he helps them all.  “Ow, what gives, Winchester?” Charlie gripes, rubbing her shoulder, that took the brunt of her impact as she fell.

“ _Dreamy_?” Dean spits out, looking at Charlie like she’s grown a second head.

“Hey, I may be into the ladies, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes!” Castiel blushes, caught somewhere between embarrassed and flattered. Dean huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, ready for an argument.

Thankfully Sam steps in. “Dean, Charlie is doing us a favor. So if you could shut up, before she decides not to help us and we have to waste even more time convincing her again, I think we’d all appreciate it.”

“Fine,” he bites out. “I’m sorry.” It’s completely insincere, but no one says anything about it. Charlie playfully bumps her shoulder against Dean’s arm and just like that, all is forgiven.

“Come on, I’ll get you that info you’re looking for. And then you’ll stay the night?” Dean shrugs.

“I suppose it won’t make that much of a difference. We’d only get a couple more hours of driving in before we’d have to stop anyways.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Sam says with a smile.

Charlie grins. “Anytime, boys.”

* * *

Staying with the Men of Letters is a strange experience, to say the least.

“They're basically the Illuminati,” Charlie explains as she shows them to their rooms in the underground bunker. Along the way, smartly dressed men visibly shy away from them and give them looks that range from fearful to annoyed.

“They are not,” Sam retorts with a roll of his eyes.

“Don’t listen to her Cas,” Dean continues. “They’re really just a bunch of nerds who like to stockpile knowledge.”

“And you’re a member?” Castiel asks, eyes darting from identical wall to identical wall. They’d made a small pitstop to get a thick file folder that, presumably, held all the information there was about lost Prince James, but since then Charlie’s led them down four hallways that all look the same and, quite frankly, Castiel isn’t sure if he’ll be able to get around this place without a guide.

Maybe that’s the point.

“With these weirdos? Yeah no, not at all.”

“Charlie may not be a Man of Letters,” Dean explains, “but her girlfriend is.”

At the mention of her paramour, Charlie brightens, grinning.“ And they’re just...okay with you living here?”

“Oh _hell_ _no_ ,” Charlie says. “But there’s not much they can really do about it.” Sam laughs.

“Yeah, Dorothy’s a _legacy_.”

“And so are these two clowns,” Charlie says with a head jerk to the Winchesters. They come to a stop finally and Charlie opens two doors that are side by side. “You’ll be staying here.”

The rooms are a bit spartan but there’s a bed on one side of the room and a desk on the other. The sheets look fresh, bright white and there’s an oatmeal colored blanket folded up at the end. At the other end there are two fluffed up pillows. It’s nothing special, but after a couple days without a bed or any place to call his own, the room is heavenly.

“I could get you guys a third room, if you need it, but then one of you would be on the other end of the bunker.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, Charlie, this is fine. Me and Sammy’ll share.”

“Yeah, we’re used to it,” Sam adds.

“Besides, we’ve only known Cas a couple o’ days. It wouldn’t be fair to expose him to Sam’s snoring just yet. We’d probably scare him off.”

Sam huffs. “I don’t snore!”

“Yeah you do,” Charlie adds, giggling. “But you’re not nearly as bad as Dean.”

“Hey!” he cries out and Charlie sticks out her tongue at him. Dean bumps his shoulder against hers and Charlie digs her elbow gently into his side.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, genuine.

“Any time,” Charlie chirps before glancing at her watch. “I should get going though. I promised Josie that I’d help her go through the archive to find something on the church that she’s been researching. I’ll see you guys for dinner?”

“Definitely,” Dean says. Charlie gives them a salute before turning on her heel and leaving the three of them in the hall. “Hey Sam, why don’t you go get the bags from the car?” Sam scrunches up his nose.

“Why do I have to?” He whines and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Because you’re being a whiny bitch. C’mon dude, I gotta talk to Cas for a second.”

“You have to let me drive for two hours tomorrow,” Sam demands.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah that’s not happening. You know I don’t trust anyone else with my baby.”

“Dean.”

“Fine, one hour where you can tune the radio to whatever you want for the next three days.”

Sam grins. “Deal.”

And just like that, Dean and Castiel are all alone. Dean nods his head towards one of the open doors and Castiel follows him in.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Castiel prompts a moment later after Dean does nothing but shuffle his feet and stare at the bare walls.

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat and hands over the thick file folder he’s had tucked into his arm. “You really should be the first one to go through this, study up. Sam and I’ll quiz you the entire trip, make sure you’re prepared.” Castiel takes the folder reverently, stroking his palm down the front, aware of just how important this information could be.

He has doubts. Of course he does. The idea is almost too absurd. There’s just no way that he, lost and lonely Castiel, is _actually_ a prince. _Someone_ would have noticed, surely.

But…what if it was true?

And what if, in the thick packet of information, between birthdates and favorite foods and daily routines, something _finally_ sparks in his memory and he remembers? What if he doesn’t?

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, swallowing down all his emotions. “I’ll give it a start before bed tonight.”

“Cool.” Dean hunches his shoulders up and Castiel is sure that he’s about to take his leave, go to the room next door that he’s going to share with Sam, leaving him all alone for the first time in days, with a file that could very well hold the secrets to his past. It’s just too much.

So he reaches out, his hand grasping lightly around Dean’s forearm. He jumps, startled by Castiel’s unexpected movement, but Castiel’s grip stays firm.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you...stay? Just for a little bit.” Dean looks at him then, evaluating him from head to toe with a small frown on his face. He opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, shakes his head.

“Sure Cas.” He heads over to the bed, sits down, stays, and a wave of relief washes over Castiel.

* * *

 

Charlie finds them again a few hours later for dinner. Sam has joined them in Castiel’s room and he’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, while reading a book. Castiel has taken residence at the desk, but turned the chair around so that it faces Dean, who’s lying on the bed, shoes kicked off, gesturing widely with his hands as he talks. She knocks, breaking the mood, and three sets of eyes turn towards her at once.

“Hungry?” She asks with a shy smile.

“ _Starved_ ,” Sam responds, closing his book and getting to his feet. It has been a while since any of them had eaten, Castiel thinks, and his stomach grumbles in anticipation. They head off towards the kitchens, Charlie chattering to Dean about something called ‘Moondoor’ and while there’s a lot that Charlie says that Castiel doesn’t understand, he’s pretty sure that asking for clarification would only open up a can of worms.

There are four men already there when they arrive and while one offers Charlie a cautious smile and a hello, they all leave before they have a chance to sit down.

“Why do they do that?” Castiel asks, as he settles into a chair. Dean and Sam are moving about the kitchen, taking out pots and pans and food from the fridge. Charlie sits next to him, content to leave the cooking to the Winchesters.

“Why do who do what?”

“The other men. I get that I’m an outsider, it makes sense that they don’t acknowledge me. But Sam and Dean are legacies. You told me that yourself.”

From the stove, Dean laughs. “Yeah we might be legacies, but we’re not exactly on good terms.”

“Well why not?” He presses.

Dean shrugs, continues to cook, seasoned chicken breast sizzling in a hot pan. Sam, thankfully, answers the question.

“Our dad was the one that defected, really. His dad, our grandfather, Henry, was initiated. He died when our dad was very young, in some sort of freak accident here.”

“Dad wasn’t exactly inclined to join up himself, as I’m sure you could tell. Thought this whole place was filled with creepy nut jobs.” Dean adds, flipping the meat. “Always made sure me and Sammy knew well enough to steer clear.”

Charlie laughs. “Yeah, because that clearly worked out.”

“Hey, me ‘n Sam have no intention of becoming members. But you have to agree, having the Men of Letters in our pocket’s useful at least.”

“You’re just lucky Dorothy takes pity on you.”

“Oh come on, you know she thinks I’m charming. And Sam’s puppy dog eyes are too hard to resist.”

“Yeah as charming as a wet cat. Although you do have a point about Sam’s eyes,” Charlie snipes back before turning to Castiel. “They met Dorothy first. She was out hunting down this arms dealer way out in Oz and it happened to be the same guy that Dean was hustling in pool.”

Dean snorts then. “Damn good thing she was, too, or else I’d have gotten more than a black eye out of that fight.”

“Dorothy totally kicked this guy’s ass, slapped some cuffs on him, and then hauled Dean in as well.”

“Dorothy’s...a police officer?” Castiel’s brows knit together. So far, his understanding of the Men of Letters is that they are archivists and scholars.

“She’s a bounty hunter,” Charlie says, with an enthusiastic grin. Dean shoves at her head playfully as he passes by to the refrigerator. “What? It’s hot!”

Dean pauses for a moment, considering. “Yeah, you’re right,” he replies. “Although don’t tell her I said that. She’d kick my ass.”

“You’re damn right. So anyways,” Charlie continues, “She cuffs Dean, figuring that he probably had a price on his head too--”

“Which he did,” Sam calls over his shoulder, from where he’s cutting up vegetables at the counter.

“But I recognized the symbol on her ring--my dad had one,” Dean explains. “It was lost during the coup, but I knew what the aquarian star was.”

“So he begs her-- _begs_ _her_ \--to give him a pass. Because of a tenuous connection to this secret society that our grandfather was in.”

“I ain’t proud,” Dean says. “Besides, I had Sammy to look after. God knows what would have happened to him if I didn’t come home.”

“So she steps out, calls me on a payphone,” Charlie continues, “Waits while I go down into the archives and confirm what he was saying.”

“In the mean time,” Dean grins, amused, “I slip out of the cuffs and crawl out the back.”

“Dorothy was pissed,” Sam supplies.

“Pretty sure that the only reason she didn’t chase after me is because it woulda meant leaving the guy in the bar behind and he was worth way more than a bruised ego.”

“But get this,” Sam says, “she tracks us down to the diner we’re eating breakfast at the next morning. Man, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dean go so white.”

“You’d understand if you’d met her, Cas. Dorothy’s scary.” Castiel looks to Charlie for confirmation but she just shrugs.

“I wouldn’t mind meeting her, if she’s around,” Castiel says.

Charlie sighs. “She left a couple of hours ago--another case came up. We both do some private investigative work too. This isn’t too serious, but I’m really not a ‘sitting around for hours on stakeouts’ kinda girl.”

“Yeah, probably because you’d wind up making out in the backseat instead of watching your target.” Charlie makes a face at Dean but doesn’t deny it.

“So anyways,” Sam chimes in, getting the story back on track. “She comes into the diner, spots us immediately, and sits down in the booth next to us.” Dean turns the heat on the stove off.

“I thought she was gonna arrest me on the spot,” Dean says, plating up the food and bringing it over to the table. “Haul me away and throw away the key.”

“But she didn’t,” Castiel says, completely certain. Dean smiles at him and something warms in Castiel’s chest.

“Yeah, no. She didn’t.” He places a full plate in front of Sam first, then Castiel and Charlie. There’s grilled chicken and a small pile of leafy greens, carrots, and tomatoes. “Instead, she gave me her business card and told me to call the number on the back if I ever needed help.”

“And that if he ever did anything again that would have him in her cuffs, she’d shoot him in the knee to make sure he couldn’t run away.”

“Not that that warning’s ever stopped you,” Charlie ribs.

“Hey, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” Dean says, digging into his food.

“So you called her?”

Dean shrugs. “Eventually. Was probably about a year later. I got in a bit of trouble with the local authorities and well, I was pretty sure there was no way I was getting out of it. So I asked her to take Sammy in. We’re legacies and while I wasn’t racing to sign up, I figured this place was better than homeless.”

“Of course, I was the one who picked up the phone that day. And Dean here didn’t exactly have time to wait for her to come on the line. So he spills his guts to me, asks me to go get Sam from the motel they were staying in, take him in. Tugged at my heartstrings, really. So Dorothy and I come swooping in to save the day,” Charlie says, her smile smug. “Called in a couple favors, got him off of all charges.”

“That was very kind of you,” Castiel says. Charlie shrugs.

“I’m a sucker for a sob story, what can I say. Besides, it would have been absolutely tragic to have separated the Winchesters.”

Castiel can’t help but agree.

* * *

 

After dinner they adjourn to the room Sam and Dean are sharing. Dean immediately flops on the bed, picks up the magazine that’s lying on the bedside table, and begins to flip through it. Charlie and Sam curl up on the floor with a deck of cards, playing a game that’s unfamiliar to Castiel. Dean catches his eye, waves at him, telling him to come further into the room and join them.

His first instinct is to shake his head no, go wind down by himself. With the way that Dean, Sam, and Charlie interact seamlessly, it’s not hard to feel like an outsider, an interloper in their presence. But Dean’s smile is effortless and wide, content among his friends, and like a moth to a flame, Castiel is drawn to it. He sits down on the bed next to Dean and he sits up so that he’s right next to Castiel. Dean places a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy, but he can’t help but relish the contact.

“So what, exactly, are they playing?” Castiel asks pointing to the pair on the floor.

“Let me explain it to you,” Dean says. They spend the rest of the evening together, sitting side by side. Hours later, when Castiel finally curls up in his own bed, he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

For the first time in a long time, there are no nightmares; there’s just Dean. 


	5. Chapter 4

They say their goodbyes to Charlie in the early morning light. She hugs all three of them, much to Castiel’s surprise, in the doorway at the bunker.

“Take care of yourselves, okay?” She implores. “And don’t forget to call me when you get to Eden.”

“Jeez, alright, _Mom_.” Dean teases.

Charlie sticks her tongue out at him. “You know Dorothy and I worry.”

“We’ll be fine, Charlie,” Sam reassures, “We’ve certainly been through worse and come out the other side unscathed. Well, mostly.”

“Sam, that is the least comforting thing you have ever said to me.”

“It’s true?” Sam offers her a sheepish smile and Charlie rolls her eyes.

“Just try to be careful, okay? I mean this with love, but trouble seems to follow you two wherever you go.”

“Eh, we’ll be alright.” Dean insists. “We’ve got Cas with us this time. He’s a good luck charm.” Castiel squints; he can’t tell if Dean’s joking or not.

“Cas,” Charlie sighs. “Please do your best to keep these two boneheads out of trouble. But if it proves futile, and it probably will, just...save yourself, okay?”

“Hey!” Both the Winchesters protest.

Castiel quirks a smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“And next time you guys are within fifty miles of this place, I expect a visit.”

“Absolutely, your majesty,” Dean quips, picking up his duffle bag and walking towards the Impala. Sam gives a quick wave and scampers after him.

“Goodbye, Charlie,” Castiel says. “It was very nice to meet you.” Charlie smiles fondly at him.

“You’re a good one Cas, I know it. So seriously, if you need to part ways with Sam and Dean, call me.” Subtly, she presses a piece of paper into his hand. “Don’t let them know I gave that to you, but it’s a direct line to the Men of Letters. No matter where I am, they’ll be able to get ahold of me.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, an awkward mix of touched and offended. He glances over at Dean who is playfully messing up Sam’s hair, smiling, the trunk of the Impala still open in front of them. The sun hits him just right, Castiel thinks. He looks radiant.

“Cas, the Winchesters. Well. They’ve been mixed up in a lot of crap over the years. They’re _used_ to stuff like this. And no one, especially not me, would blame you if you needed an out.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Castiel replies, eyes still on Dean, watching him load of the car. “But I can take care of myself. Goodbye, Charlie.”

He walks towards Dean and doesn’t look back.                                                                                          

* * *

“Oh oh, I’ve got one,” Dean says, folding the file backwards and bringing the page closer to his face to read. Castiel sighs. For the past twenty minutes, both the brothers have been quizzing him on the minutiae of Prince James’ life and he had to admit he was more than a little vexed by it.

He can’t help but be frustrated. Castiel knows that he’s a smart man, that he can and will learn the information eventually, but it’s impossible to expect him to know every tiny detail when it’s only been two days. He does _not_ have a photographic memory. So while he’s been studying, reading over the file in the backseat of the car, in the motel room they rented the night before, and the diner they’re ate breakfast in, there’s no possible way for him to get all of the answer correct.

“What was the name of the prince’s first horse?” Dean asks him. He doesn’t know the answer to this one either, so Castiel stalls for time, taking a bite of the burger in front of him and chews slowly.

“Does it really matter?” He finally settles on responding. “Presumably the animal in question is dead.” Dean sighs.

“Cas, anything you don’t remember could come back to bite us in the ass.”

“But I _don’t_. Remember, that is.”

“You don’t, yeah, but Prince James does.”

“If Prince James is alive, then he probably doesn’t either. Why else wouldn’t he have come forward at this point? It’s been ten years!”

“The point Dean’s trying to make, Cas,” Sam says placatingly, “is that any slip up could cost us dearly.”

“I know. But expecting me to know everything front to back in that folder after two days is more than a little foolish. I will learn the information, just in my own time.” Sam seems to accept this, but the churlish look on Dean’s face hasn’t changed.

“Hey Sam, what was the name of the prince’s first horse?” he asks again.

“Bumblebee,” Sam responds without missing a beat. “She was white.” Castiel huffs.

“That can’t be right.” Dean turns the file around and points to where the information can be found.

“Read it and weep, Angelface.” And indeed, there it is. In neat black type, it’s spelled out clearly that the horse’s name was Bumblebee, she was white, and presented to the prince upon his third birthday.

“That’s absurd,” Castiel remarks, squinting at the page. Certain that he’s reading it incorrectly, he pulls the file from Dean’s hands, brings it closer to his face. “He was three years old when they plopped him on a horse?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says.

“Surely that’s not safe!” he protests. “He could have been killed!”

“They’re royalty, Castiel. They practically come out of the womb atop a horse,” Dean snaps. He shifts, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and plopping down some bills on the table. “Eat the rest of your salad, Sammy. We should get going soon.”

“You going out tonight?” Sam asks, shoving another forkful of vegetables into his mouth. Dean nods.

“Yeah, there’s a little hole in the wall a couple blocks from the motel that I thought would be perfect to make a little cash.”

“I’m gonna stay in, if that’s okay.” Dean stills, cup of water poised in the air halfway to his mouth.

“I...guess?” He says eventually, a moment taken to process the statement.

“I’ve seen you hustle pool a million times, Dean. Thought I’d just make it an early night.”

“Who’s gonna watch my back then?”

Sam shrugs. “Take Cas with you.”

Castiel pauses in his reading and glances up at the two brothers. “What?”

“Yeah, Sammy, _what_?”

“Take. Cas. With you,” Sam repeats slower. Dean grimaces.

“I dunno.” Considering Dean’s reaction, Castiel was expecting it. Still, it hurts more than he thought it would.

“I can watch over you,” he offers, hoping that he’s managed to keep the emotion out of his voice. Dean looks him up and down.

“Seriously, dude?”

“What?”

“You’re just. Well.” He doesn’t elaborate further. “Can you even throw a punch?” And really? That’s the problem? Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Dean, I grew up pretty much friendless in an orphanage. I can hold my own.” Dean gives him a look that says he thinks the exact opposite. Castiel huffs. “If you’d rather go by yourself, that’s fine. I don’t mind staying back at the motel. I’ve got a lot of reading to do,” he continues, gesturing to the file in front of him.

“Well I mean. If you want to?” Dean asks, sheepish. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Okay,” he says, aiming for nonchalant, but he can’t help the way his mouth quirks upwards.

Next to them, Sam rolls his eyes, exasperated.                                                                                       

* * *

‘Hole in the wall’ almost seems too nice a description for the bar that Dean drags Castiel along to. Castiel had thought that the Roadhouse had been a bit seedy, but this place made it look like a four star restaurant.

Immediately, he feels out of place in his trench coat, black slacks, and white button down. But no matter what he wears, he rationalizes, he’d be out of his depth. He certainly didn’t have the duds to fit in with this crowd. Dean however, blends right in, with worn jeans and a leather jacket. Uncomfortable, Castiel shuffles, shifting his weight. Dean claps him on the shoulder, jerking Castiel’s movement to a stop.

“Why don’t you go get us some beers. I’m gonna go over to the pool table and set up a game, okay?”

Castiel offers him a shaky smile, and stiffly heads over to the bar, his shoulders tense. He’s aware of every eye in the bar that’s on him and he can’t help but feel like a cornered animal.

None of the burly men approach him or talk to him though. He gets the bartender’s attention and starts a tab, and brings the alcohol back over to Dean, who has the pool balls lined up and is rubbing chalk onto the end of his cue.

“You ever play pool before?” Dean asks and Castiel shakes his head. Dean smirks. “Well then you’re in luck. C’mon, I’ll teach you.”

He hands Castiel the cue in his hand and then proceeds to help get Castiel in position to break. He’s close enough that Castiel can feel the warmth of his body against his own and the brushes of his hands, large and rough from years of labor, makes him feel warm under the collar. Castiel is sure he’s flushed.

“It’s not hard. You just hold your cue like this and then--yeah that’s right, put your other hand at the tip to keep it steady.” Dean presses a hand between Castiel’s shoulder blades, urging him forward. Each word, low and husky,  caresses his ear, the soft puff of Dean’s breath at his neck intoxicating. “Easy now. Just pull back and hit the cue ball into the rest of them.” Biting his lip and trying very hard to ignore the feel of Dean’s lips tickling his skin, Castiel urges the white ball forward. With a clack, the rest of them spread out across the table. One--a solid green--sinks into the left corner pocket.

When all of them stop moving, Castiel straightens up and clears his throat. “Was that good?”

Dean grins, wide. “Yeah man, that was great.”

Strangely relieved, Castiel reaches for the beer bottle, takes a long drag from it.

They fall into a rhythm then: Dean explains that it’s his job to get all the solid colored balls into the pockets before Dean gets all the striped ones in. They trade turns back and forth, Dean helping to fix his stance, the way he’s holding the pool cue, giving him tips about which balls to go after. It isn’t until Castiel has sunk four of the solid balls that he notices that Dean’s only gotten one of the striped ones into a pocket. He breathes in sharply, eyes searching for Dean’s, who’s lining up his next shot. Noticing his distress, Dean just winks at him and misses again. He passes by Castiel when he’s bent over ready to strike and whispers into his ear.

“Just keep playing dude, I got this.” Castiel can’t suppress the shiver that runs down his spine the exact moment he pushes the cue forward. Dean needs Castiel to trust him and well, that’s definitely easier than he thought it would be. They’ve known each other for a handful of days and, despite their rocky start, Castiel can’t help but feel that he’d leave his life in Dean’s hands, knows that Dean would protect him, take care of him to the best of his ability.

He just hopes that Dean knows the reverse is true, too.

Turns out, Castiel isn’t terrible at pool. He’s not going to be winning every game, especially not against someone seasoned and experienced. But their first game ends relatively quickly, Dean letting him win, of course. It’s part of a larger plan and Castiel knows enough to keep his mouth shut. After Castiel sinks the eight ball, Dean slaps him on the shoulder and congratulates him. His smile is blinding, roguish and enchanting. His closeness is intoxicating, even more so than the alcohol in his system, and each small touch, every tiny invasion of personal space leaves him heated. He’s has gone through two beers already, is halfway through his third, and it takes all his willpower not to lean into the man, press up against him, and kiss his neck.

Two men approach them while Dean’s setting up for another game and Castiel takes that as his cue to make a small escape. He darts off to the bathroom, locks the door, and then leans against the sink for a moment, breathing deeply. Turning on the tap, he splashes his face with some cold water. It sobers him up a bit, clears his head of the desire that thrums underneath his skin.

It’s absurd, really, wanting Dean Winchester. The man is a con artist, a criminal and he’s using Castiel just as much as Castiel is using him. He’s known the man a week and while that has been a week where they’ve lived in very close quarters, have spent most of their days together, that doesn’t mean that he should be _lusting_ after him.

He can’t help but think that Mother Naomi would be incredibly disappointed in him and the thought makes him laugh, gets him out of his own head.

Mother Naomi would hate Dean, he’s sure of it, but she also would only see what was on the surface. The roughness around the edges, the decisions to willfully break the law, to defraud others. She wouldn’t see his kindness or his love for his brother, wouldn’t see the inherent goodness in him that not even a rough life can stamp out. There’s no denying that Dean is an attractive man, but his soul is blindingly beautiful, and that more than anything is what attracts Castiel like a moth to the flame.

Feeling stable enough, finally, to face the room again, Castiel wipes away the moisture still on his face with his sleeve and exits the restroom.

Dean’s in the middle of a game with the men who had approached before and Castiel, not wanting to disturb him, goes right to the bar and sits down at an empty stool. The bartender, a curvy brunette in tight, dark jeans and a low cut purple shirt, wanders over to him after a couple of minutes.

“Another beer?” She asks.

“Ah,” Castiel says, “no. Just some water, thanks.” She smiles at him, wide and predatory.

“Oh you’re no fun,” she says, fetching him a glass.

“I suppose not,” he replies, not really sure how he’s supposed to respond to the comment. Honestly the bartender, like most of the people here, looks like she would eat him alive.

“You taking a break from playing your boyfriend over there?”

“My boyfriend?” Castiel’s brow furrows. “Oh, Dean and I aren’t…”

“Uh huh,” she replies with a raised brow. “Sure didn’t look like that, with the way he was bending you over, whispering dirty things in your ear.” Castiel can’t help it: he flushes.

“That’s not...I mean, he was just teaching me!”

The bartender laughs. “Easy there, calm down. I’m just teasing.” He feels foolish. “You got a name, trench coat?”

“Castiel.”

“I’m Meg. And trust me, he’s into you too.”

“W-What?”

“Mmm, men like that, Clarence? Trust me, they wouldn’t go through the whole peacocking thing if they didn’t want to pin you to the bed and ride you hard.”

“It’s Castiel,” he corrects, ignoring the last half of what she said.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” She winks, picks up a rag and wipes down the bar in front of him.

He wants to question her more, wants to know _why_ she would think that, but there’s a shout, a quick but alarmed “Hey!” from behind him. Castiel stiffens; that was definitely Dean. He whirls around and sees the two men Dean was playing crowding into his space.

“I won, fair and square!” Dean insists. “Not my fault you thought I was an easy mark.”

“You cheated,” the first man insists and he rips the pool cue out of Dean’s hand.

“I’m just better than you thought I’d be, that’s not cheating,” Dean insists. He darts sideways, trying to avoid getting sandwiched between the two men but one of them grabs his arm, hauls him back towards the pool table and traps him.

Castiel is off his barstool not a second later, but by the time he’s meets the trio, the man who grabbed Dean earlier has him held down and the other lands a punch to his gut. Dean grunts at the impact and Castiel sees red. He punches the man square in the face and he can feel bones crunch beneath his fist. The man falls back with a cry, hands flying up to his now bleeding nose. His friend lets go of Dean and grabs hold of Castiel now, tackles him to the floor. Castiel’s head hits the floor and he groans, his gaze whiting out with pain. The man doesn’t give him a second to recover because Castiel feels an impact of a fist and hurt blooms across the left side of his face.

“Cas!” He hears Dean yell and when his eyes readjust, he sees that Dean has his assailant in a choke hold. From somewhere behind him, he hears the other man get up and Castiel knows he needs to act fast. He reaches up and pulls on the other man’s hair, at the same time bucking his hips and that throws the man on top of him enough for Castiel to slide out from underneath him. He stumbles to his feet, arms flailing as he gets his balance, and inadvertently elbows the man behind him in the gut, causing him to double over.

“Dean,” he implores and he looks up at Castiel, finally noticing he’s gotten free. “Let’s go!” His hold loosens on the man in front of him and not a second later, he’s gripping Castiel’s hand tight in his.

They run to the door and across the parking lot hand in hand. Dean’s pace is quick, too quick, and Castiel struggles to keep up, but adrenaline and fear pumping through their veins means neither of them has it in them to stop. They’re down the street from the motel before they slow down and Castiel, winded and panting, leans against a building to catch his breath. He glances at Dean and while the other man looks rumpled and roughed up, his shirt collar torn and his jacket hanging off of one shoulder, he’s grinning at Castiel.

“Told you I knew how to throw a punch,” Castiel says finally. Dean’s eyes light up and he laughs, breathless and wheezy.

“Dude, I don’t even want to imagine what kind of trouble you orphan kids get into. Damn.”

Still high on adrenaline, but feeling well enough to walk back to the hotel, Dean slings his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and leans into him as they make their way back.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks. Dean grins.

“Yeah man, I’m fine.” He reaches out with his other hand, turns Castiel’s face towards his so he can inspect it, all but cupping Castiel’s jaw. “Looks like you’re gonna have a shiner there.”

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel replies, short of breath and wide eyed. “I’ve had worse.” Dean frowns at that and Castiel wishes he could take the words back, that he could stop saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t want Dean to frown.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Dean murmurs. He drops his hand and pulls away, the other arm sliding off Castiel’s shoulders as he goes, taking the warmth with him. With some distance between them now, and the rush from their bar fight finally fading away, the crisp night air prickles along Castiel’s skin, leaving goosebumps behind.

They begin to walk again, one foot in front of the other, a respectable distance away from each other. But by the time they reach the motel, their shoulders are bumping, arms brushing with each movement and Dean’s fingers, callused and thick, are dancing across Castiel’s palm, a quick caress before he pulls away. He always comes back though, like he’s dragged towards Castiel by an invisible pull.

They reach their doors, side by side, and Dean hesitates. The window is dark in the room Dean is sharing with Sam. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at Castiel.

“Can I…?” He trails off, not needing to finish.

“Of course,” Castiel replies, his voice getting caught in his throat. Twelve hours ago, he wouldn’t have batted an eye at sharing his room with Dean. But after tonight, after the bar, something warm and wanting is stirring in his gut, and he feels his body thrumming with anticipation. There’s weight behind their words, an unsaid meaning that they both understand.

“I don’t want to wake Sam. He needs his rest.” It’s a weak excuse, but Castiel won’t--doesn’t want to--call him on it. He unlocks the door to his room and flicks on the light by the door before welcoming Dean in with a nod of his head.

Dean swaggers into the room after him and looks around it curiously as Castiel removes his trench coat and lays it over the back of a chair. Dean rubs his hands together as he takes in the room, getting some warmth back into his extremities. His eyes widen when they land on the single bed in the room.

“I can just sleep on the floor,” Dean offers.

“No,” Castiel says, perhaps too quickly. They both flush. He fidgets with the cuff of his shirtsleeve.  “No, we can share. The bed is certainly big enough.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, shrugging off his jacket, laying it on top of Castiel’s. Castiel moves to his duffle bag at the foot of the bed, rifles through it for his pajamas and toothbrush.

“Do you need--” Castiel begins to ask, head over his shoulder, but Dean shakes his head, glancing at Castiel quickly before looking away, examining the hideous wallpaper that covers the room.

“No, no, I’m good. I usually just sleep in my boxers anyway. If that’s alright.”

“It’s fine. I’m just gonna…”

“Okay. I’ll be here.” Castiel gets changed and takes his time with his ablutions, brushing his teeth and washing his face with the soap the motel leaves in the dish. It’s cheap and smells like baby powder, but it does get the odor of cigarette smoke and cheap beer off his skin. And when he’s all done, face still damp and his worn, old pajamas soft against his skin, he reenters the room.

Dean’s sitting on the bed, on top of the covers in just his underwear and thin t-shirt. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat at the sight—good God, he’s gorgeous. Trying to play it cool, he averts his gaze and walks over to the side of the bed that Dean is not occupying. Dean shifts at his approach, slips off the side of the mattress, and together they turn down the blankets. They move in tandem, orbiting around each other as they finish getting ready to sleep, never quite touching, but always aware of the presence of the other. Castiel reaches over and turns on the lamp sitting on the night table and Dean, without being asked, shuts off the light switch by the door.

They slip between the sheets and lay side by side, not touching, but the air between them is filled with potential.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel says and shuts off the lamp.

“‘Night, Cas,” Dean rumbles into the dark. In the quiet, Castiel can hear his own heartbeat, thump _thump_ , thump _thump_ , against his ribs. He wonders if it’s loud enough for Dean to hear, if Dean can tell that it’s beating out a dance beat in his chest. He wants to kiss Dean, has wanted to press his lips against Dean’s since the bar, but the moment seems to have passed. In the dark, he can’t even get up the courage to face the other man; instead, he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

The sheets rustle and Castiel tenses as Dean shifts, rolls over onto his side. His hand inches closer until Castiel can feel the warmth of it against his own. It waits there, resting patiently, an invitation.

Tentatively, Castiel takes it.

He hears Dean’s breath hitch and it’s absurdly comforting to know that whatever this is, it isn’t one sided. Dean feels it too.

“I was studying to be a priest,” Castiel says and he’s not sure why, but he feels like it’s important that Dean knows this, that Dean knows everything he can about Castiel in this moment. “Still am. I think.”

“Which is it?” Dean asks, his voice rough and low.

“I...I don’t really know. I had to leave, you understand. But when I left, I did so with the intention of going back.”

“And now?”

“It’s only been a few of days,” Castiel says with a small sigh. “But I can’t really imagine going back to the way things were. I will always be thankful to St. Ambrose’s and I won’t deny that I have the utmost respect and affection for its residents. But for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m not working to fit some kind of mold of what’s expected to me. I don’t feel like the weight of living is laying on my chest, like I’m struggling to breathe as I get through a day.” Castiel rolls over, facing Dean, their bodies curved like a set parentheses, cradling the space between them where their hands are clasped.

“Sister Rachel didn’t want me to do it,” he confesses, biting his lips.

“A nun didn’t want you to become a priest?” Dean questions and Castiel can’t help but chuckle softly.

“She was adamantly opposed to it, really. We’ve always been close, her and I. She was a novitiate when I arrived at the orphanage, so she was younger than most of the other nuns. I think she took pity on me really--I had a hard time making friends with the other boys, was often by myself. I would hide from the bullies in a corner in the kitchen, watch her work. She’s a very skilled chef,” Castiel informs him, the words spilling forth. “I imagine that, if I had an older sister, she would have been a lot like Sister Rachel.”

“She cares about you,” Dean says, soft and warm.

“She does,” Castiel nods. “Which is why she didn’t think I should devote my life to God. Not when I didn’t really believe in him. I never could wrap my mind around why the Lord would make me lose my memory, why he would be so cruel as to wipe away the identity of a child, helpless to make their way in the world. Mother Naomi always said that the Lord works in mysterious ways, but---”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean finishes for him.

“Succinctly put,” Castiel agrees, grinning.

“I don’t either. Believe, I mean. If God really exists, then he’s a giant dick.”

The silence between them stretches out, but it’s not oppressive. There’s no pressure to it, no tension, simply a calm, comforting quiet. Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand, still gripped tightly in his own, brings it up to his lips, and kisses his knuckles softly.

“Cas,” Dean breathes out. “ _Castiel_.” And then his hands are on Castiel’s face, careful and gentle as he tips his chin up so their mouths can meet. Dean’s lips are soft and dry. They barely touch Castiel’s, giving him the chance to back away, to say no. Eyes half-lidded, Castiel surges forward. He says yes.

Kissing Dean is a revelation. He did not know he wanted it, needed it, until the moment that it happened. And now that he has it, he doesn’t ever want it to stop. Dean scoots closer to him, tangling their legs together at the end of the bed. He removes his hands from Castiel’s face, reaches out and clasps his hands, holds on tight and never lets go. He pulls away from Castiel’s lips, stretches his neck and kisses his eyelids, his cheek and nibbles down his jaw, sucking lightly, ever careful of the bruising spread across the side of his face.

Castiel keens, shuddering slightly as Dean’s lips delicately graze that spot just behind his ear.

“Shhh,” Dean shushes him and goes back to kissing his lips, swallowing whole the small whimpers and sighs that his ministrations bring forth. He shifts, slips one leg over onto the other side of Castiel’s hips and settles down on top of him, pressing him into the bed as their lips and tongues explore the shape of each other’s.

Against his hip, Castiel can feel Dean’s erection pressing into him, the only barriers between them two thin pieces of cloth. His own pajama pants are tented and while the temptation is there to rut up against Dean’s thigh or reach down to wrap a hand around both of them, he doesn’t.

There’s no rush. There will be time, eventually, for all of it, for mind shattering sex and sweet, tender love making, and everything in between. But that time is not now.

Now is for lazy, unhurried kisses, for the comforting weight of Dean pressed against him, for the feeling of Dean’s heart beating in time with his own. Thump, _thump_. Thump, _thump_. Thump, _thump_.


	6. Chapter 5

Castiel doesn’t expect Dean to still be there when he wakes up. He hasn’t exactly gotten the impression that Dean’s the type to do the morning after routine. But he’s pleasantly surprised when he opens his eyes to find that he’s still pressed up against the other man, who managed to steal all the blankets in the middle of the night. He’s sleeping soundly and snoring softly, and his face peaceful as he snuffles in his sleep. He smiles into Dean’s shoulder, closes his eyes again, and dozes off again. He’s unwilling to disturb Dean by moving and not entirely ready to get out of bed himself.

He’s woken again sometime later by Sam banging on the door. The knocking startles both of them and they spring apart, Dean blinking blearily into the daylight, while Castiel is only marginally more with it.

“Cas? Are you in there?” Sam calls from behind the closed door.

“Shit,” Dean whispers. “Sammy.” Castiel gets up, pads to the door, and opens it just wide enough to see Sam on the other side, dressed and frowning, his expression somewhere between annoyance and concern.

“Good morning, Sam.”

“Is Dean with you?” He asks without preamble. “He didn’t come back to our room last night and check out’s in thirty.” From inside the room, Dean groans.

“I’m fine, Sam!” he calls out and Castiel opens the door wider so Sam can see inside. The boy takes in the sight of his brother, half dressed and wrapped up in the sheets and blankets of Castiel’s bed and he makes a face.

“Seriously Dean?”

“We got back late, Sammy. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you’ve wanted to bone Cas since you laid eyes on him.” Dean flushes bright red and he squawks, indignant. Sam turns to Castiel, gives him a once over, and then declares “Cas, I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You two should get dressed. We really do need to get going.” He turns on his heel, back towards his own room but hesitates in the last second. “Oh and Castiel?”

“Yes?” He crosses his arms over his middle--the morning air is finally starting to take it’s toll.

“If you hurt him, no one will be able to find the body.” He ducks back into the room next door, leaving Dean and Castiel alone once more. Dean hunches over, burying his face in his hands. Castiel closes the door, but stays put, giving Dean some space. He’s tense, unsure of what Dean’s reaction to the situation is going to be.

“Man, I don’t know what’s worse: getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar by my little brother or the fact that he feels like he’s needs to defend my nonexistent virtue.” Dean throws his head back then, laughing uncontrollably. Something in Castiel eases and the voice in his head that’s been shouting so loud that this is all a mistake, that it’s too good to be true, fades into the background. He grins then, wide and gummy, crossing the room to take Dean’s face in his hands and kiss him soundly, through his laughter.

“Thank you,” he whispers into his lips once they pull away and Dean’s brow furrows adorably.

“Dude, you’re the one that kissed me. Feels like I should be thanking you.” And then Dean’s lips are back on his own, hot and sweet and strong and chapped.

“We should get dressed.”

“Mmm,” Dean murmurs, pressing kisses down Castiel’s jaw and sucking lightly at the juncture of his neck.

“And we could probably both use a shower.” And that stops the assault of kisses. Dean smiles.

“ _That_ is an excellent idea.” Dean pushes off the bed and stalks to the bathroom. Castiel follows him with his eyes, pouting, but stays rooted where he stands. He reappears at the doorway a moment later, poking his head around the door that’s half closed. “Hey babe, you coming?” he asks, disappearing a second later.

Dean’s boxers being thrown back into the room and the squeaking of the shower turning on aren’t entirely necessary, but it certainly helps him pick up the pace.

Dean’s already under the spray once Castiel shuts the door behind them, trapping the steam in. The small room immediately becomes murky and foggy as Castiel strips off his pajamas and climbs into the tub behind Dean, who’s already got shampoo in his hair.

He’s on him immediately, wrapping his arms around his slick waist and licking the water off his neck. Dean squirms, ticklish, and pushes away from Castiel playfully.

“Took you long enough,” he says over the roar of the water. “Thought I was going to have to send out an engraved invitation.” Castiel chuckles softly.

“No, you didn’t need to go that far.”

“Yeah, you’re slow Cas, but you pick up on things eventually.” He presses a peck to Castiel’s lips before he goes under the spray, washing the shampoo out of his hair. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat as Dean leans his head back, letting the suds fall into the drain. The water flows over his shoulders and his chest, running down his stomach and sturdy legs. Castiel wants to press his tongue to every inch of him, drink the water from his skin, from bottom to top. The desire is so strong that his knees bend slightly, his body subconsciously suggesting that he get to his knees. Dean catches him around the waist though, prevents him from falling.

He smiles and kisses the tip of Castiel’s nose. Castiel squints, trying to watch him as he does it.

“Why did you do that?” he asks. Dean leans forward and presses another kiss, this one right between his eyes.

“‘Cause I can now. Jeez man, I walked into that bar and I’m not gonna lie. I wanted to climb you like a tree.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Why didn’t you?”

Dean laughs softly, presses his face to Castiel’s shoulder. “Dude you were so unapproachable, it’s not even funny. Remember, when I got there you were throwing knives. And then you hit me with the judgmental stare of disapproval. I’m good, but I’m not that good. And there’s not point in playing when I know I’m gonna strike out.” Dean reaches out and grabs the shampoo once more for a second wash.

“So you thought you’d just bide your time until I was more amenable to the suggestion?”

“God no, dude. I had pretty much given up on the idea until last night. Don’t know if you noticed but the tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.” He goes back under the spray and washes away the suds. Castiel surges forward and kisses him again. They make out lazily with the water raining down on them for a moment until Dean pushes away, grabs the shampoo one more time.

“Let me,” he says softly, almost pleading and Castiel bows his head in compliance. Dean’s fingers card through his hair as he spreads the soap, works it into a lather. He massages Castiel’s scalp and he can’t help but moan at the pleasurable pressure. Dean inhales sharply at the sound and the next thing he knows, Dean has him pressed up against the shower wall and they’re kissing furiously. It’s wet and wild, frenzied and slippery. Castiel wraps one leg around Dean’s hip, pulling him closer, and they grind against each other through their hurried kisses. Dean reaches between them, takes them both in hand, and begins to stroke slowly, deliberately. Castiel gasps, presses further up into his palm. Dean grins, kisses down the side of Castiel’s neck and deliberately sucks a mark right in the middle, where it can’t be hidden.

“Dean,” Castiel pants out, “don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, babe.” He’s jacking them both harder, quicker than before. Castiel’s arms drape themselves over Dean’s shoulders, sneak down his shoulders, and he digs his nails into his back as he spills over the edge. Dean follows him with a hiss and then he slumps against Castiel, breathing heavily. The water flows over them, gone lukewarm at this point, just on the other side of cold, as they catch their breath. Against him, Dean smirks; Castiel can feel the twist of his lips against his neck.

“You still have shampoo in your hair,” he says and then they’re both laughing. Languidly, Dean washes the soap out, wiping away the suds that have slipped down his forehead, trailing along his cheeks before he reaches for the washcloth and wipes them both down. By the time they finish, the water is cold and they’re shivering as Castiel twists the knob and shuts it off. They dry each other off in silence, occasionally stealing a kiss through the tangle of limbs. Dean gropes his ass with a wink as he towels off his lower back and Castiel yelps before smacking him on the shoulder.

Affection is something that Dean gives freely, openly, and Castiel, unused to such demonstrative, physical gestures soaks it up like a sponge. As they pack up, Dean’s constantly touching him, a hand lingering on his waist as he moves past, or a bump of shoulders as he helps stuff Castiel’s duffle full of his meager possessions. Every brush, every caress sets off something warm inside him. It twists through him, up through his chest and lungs, down into his stomach and his groin. He feels it in his fingertips, in his toes, in the hair follicles on his head.  Something’s shifted between them, a line’s been crossed, and wherever this journey takes them, Castiel knows they can’t go back. He can’t be with Dean, can’t travel with him day after day, pretend to be a prince and just be friends.

No, now that he knows what he’s missing, Castiel refuses to live without it.

They’re late checking out, but Dean slips the desk clerk an extra twenty so he won’t charge them for another night. They walk out to the car together, holding hands and Castiel can’t help the large smile on his face. Sam rolls his eyes at them but goes to open the passenger side door and get the show on the road when Dean stops him.

“Get in the back, Sasquatch. Cas has shotgun.”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and stares at them, evaluating, before he sighs, capitulating. “Fine, whatever. I still get to pick the music, though!” he insists.

They drive off, the pop music station playing and Dean’s hand on Castiel’s knee. 

* * *

They’re at least ten miles away from civilization in any direction when Castiel smells something strange. He frowns, sits forward in the passenger seat, and sniffs the air.

“Everything okay there?” Dean asks, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye before focusing on the road again.

“Is...something burning?” Castiel asks. And almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, tendrils of gray smoke float up from underneath the hood of the car. Dean’s eyes widen and he throws on his hazards as he signals to get over to the side of the road. As they roll onto the dirt and gravel shoulder, the smoke begins to billow, thick plumes furling out from the front of the car. Dean cuts the ignition and barks at them to get out.

Sam looks worried and a little shaken as they stand on the side of the road, other cars passing them. Dean’s got the hood open and the smoke is starting to dissipate a bit.

“I thought you had the car checked out before we left, Dean.”

Dean shrugs, bent over the engine with a contemplative look on his face. “I looked her over myself, Sam. She was roadworthy then and she’s roadworthy now.”

“Clearly not, since we’re standing here and the front end is smoking!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It could just be a clogged air filter, calm down.”

“Well _is_ it a clogged air filter?

“I won’t know until I can get a better look. And the side of the road is no place for that.”

Sam sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Dean claps his brother on the shoulder’s. “Come on man, it’s not that bad. Nearest town’s only a couple miles away.”

“I’m taking Cas with me,” Sam says.

“What?” Castiel replies. “Taking me where?”

“We’re gonna walk to the next town and call a friend. Dean’s gonna stay with the car, make sure nothing happens to it.”

“And I have to go with you because…?”

“Yeah, Sammy, why you gotta take my boo like that?” Dean teases, but Sam purses his lips, annoyed and not in the mood.

“ _Because_ if I leave you two here together, you’re going to wind up having sex in the car. And we practically live in the car. So Cas is coming with me.”

“Aw come on, Sam. What if we promise?”

“No, he’s right Dean,” Castiel says, shooting Dean a heated look. “I doubt we’d be able to resist the temptation.” Dean grins back at him, lasciviously and Sam groans.

“Stop having eye sex.” He tugs on Castiel’s arm. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we can come back.” Dean leans back against the driver’s side door of the car.

“You got money?” he asks and Sam nods.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine. I know the drill, Dean.”

They walk the first half mile in silence, but it’s a comfortable one. Castiel hasn’t spent that much time with Sam, hasn’t really even considered him as an entity outside of Dean. He knows that Sam’s smart, that he’s going to the university in Eden, that he grew up, bouncing around from town to town wherever Dean could get work. He knows that he was raised by Dean, that his loyalty and drive are something that his older brother instilled in him. But these are all things he’s gleaned from speaking with Dean. Aside from that he knows nothing about the boy.

The thought stops him in his tracks and Sam walks a few more steps before he realizes that Castiel is no longer beside him.

“Everything alright, Cas?”

“What are you going to school for?” he blurts out.

Sam gives him a look like he’s crazy. “Law. Are you sure you’re okay? Is the sun getting to you? Exhaust fumes?”

“I’m fine. I just...I realized that I don’t know all that much about you. I’ve been remiss.”

“It’s okay dude.” Sam gives him a smile and it’s enough to reassure Castiel. “It was clear that you and Dean were having a thing. I didn’t mind being pushed to the sidelines.”

“Well, I would like to rectify that.” Castiel starts walking again, his steps forthright and determined. “You’re going to study law?” Sam flushes a bit at the attention but he’s still grinning.

“Yeah. I wanna make a difference. The way Dean and I grew up…well it could have been a lot worse. It is a lot worse, for a lot of other families. I want to fix that.”

“That’s very noble,” Castiel says.

“And I know that it’s not going to be easy. The system is so broken. But I have to try.” Sam strides forward, each step filled with an enviable determination and unbroken spirit. Castiel watches him out of the corner of his eye and he can’t help but think that, if anyone could do it, it’d be Sam.

“What about you? Any plans after you find your family?”

“I don’t...I don’t really think I’m going to find them, Sam,” Castiel confesses. “It’s been ten years. They’re probably dead.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not out there,” Sam insists.

“I suppose,” Castiel concedes, but it’s not an option he really likes to think about. It’s one thing to know that there was no way for them to have found him. To find out that they’re alive, that they never even looked, that they didn’t want him would be heartbreaking. “I’m just looking for some closure. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do afterwards.”

“Well, can’t you go back to doing what you were doing before?”

Castiel shrugs. “I was training to be a priest but I...I can’t say I enjoyed it. If I had to go back, I suppose I could. But I don’t really want to.” In a perfect world, Castiel could just stay with Dean. They’d find something to do together and Sam could visit when he was on breaks from school. The where and the what could all come later. As long as he has Dean, it’s not that important.

* * *

 

When they get into town, a place called Hibbing, finding a payphone isn’t hard. Sam crams himself into the little booth and Castiel stands outside, leaning against the frame. The conversation between Sam and Bobby isn’t long. Sam tells him that the car’s broken down, that they’ll sit tight in town until he gets there. The man calls both Sam and his brother ‘idjits’ and does it loud enough that Castiel can hear it through the speaker, but he says he’ll be on his way, with a tow truck, not to worry. Sam hangs up the phone, the receiver clacking down into the cradle and exits the booth.

“Well, we got a few hours to kill. Want to get something to eat?” Sam asks. Castiel’s stomach growls in return.

“I suppose I do,” he says with a wry grin and they walk together into town. They pass two hole in the wall diners, ones that Dean would have dragged them both into with a grin, but they don’t go in, don’t even stop to look at a menu.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m already sick of diner food. Is it okay if we go somewhere else?” Sam says, shuffling a little self consciously.

“That’s fine,” Castiel says and it really is. The thing about growing up in an orphanage is that Castiel never had the opportunity to be picky. He either ate what was put in front of him or he went hungry.

They settle on a little cafe called Chive and Thyme and step in. It’s a homey and warm, the kind of place that Dean would rib Sam about for hours for being girly. A hostess smiles at them in greeting and puts them at a table near the large window that overlooks the main street. She hands them both a menu and smiles at them before leaving them to make their choices.

The menu boasts dishes made entirely from locally sourced ingredients. It’s all seasonal and fresh and a step above the cuisine they’ve been eating since they started their road trip.

“This reminds me of St. Ambrose’s,” Castiel remarks, looking over a list of selections. “We grew most of our own vegetables and herbs there. We had some livestock too--chickens and goats, really. Nothing too big. We didn’t have room for a cow or anything like that.”

“I would’ve killed to have been able to get a meal like that. We traveled so much that bar food and diner food was our only staple. We could never really afford a place like this, especially not at first. Sometimes, when I complained enough or it was a special occasion, like my birthday, Dean would scrounge up enough to take us out to a nicer place than the local dirty spoon. And once we got back in Lawrence, things were tight for a bit. We didn’t starve or anything, but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t depend on Ellen’s kindness a couple times a week.”

The waitress comes over, a perky woman named Flo, and takes their order. Sam clears his throat after she leaves and pointedly changes the subject.

“So what makes you think you’ll find what happened to your family in Eden?” It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Sam. He’s gotten over his unease from the first day they met. But he’s kept it to himself for such a long time that it’s hard to even considering sharing such a thing with the boy. Castiel hesitates but in the end, he reaches towards his neck and pulls on the cord that lays there, bringing the locket up out from underneath his shirt. It lays against his chest, glittering in the light of the restaurant as he hurriedly undoes the clasp. Sam takes it with all the deference it deserves.

“I was wearing that when the nuns found me,” he remarks as Sam pries open the locket, revealing the map inside. He whistles softly.

“This is really high quality,” Sam says, examining the piece, taking in the map and the sentimental engraving on the inside. “The craftsmanship is really good. Like…really good.”

“I know. For a while, the nuns debated repossessing it, donating it towards the orphanage and essentially my upkeep. But they let me keep it instead. Sister Rachel thought it would be cruel to take the only possession I had, especially when I didn’t have any idea where I had come from.”

“Does Dean know about this?” Sam asks.

“I don’t think so. I haven’t told him about it. But well, it’s not like I hid it earlier.”

“Ah,” Sam says, flushing. “So I doubt he’s looked at it closely then.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Have you ever noticed this mark?” Sam asks pointing out small symbol shaped like wings on the back corner, near the hinge that opened it.

“It’s a jeweler’s mark of some kind,” Castiel says. “But I had no luck finding out who they are. No one in Lawrence recognized it.”

“You should have showed this to Charlie,” Sam says. “She’s good at tracking stuff like that down. I bet you the Men of Letters has some sort encyclopedia for this that would tell you who made this. I can call her, if you want, once we get to Bobby’s.”

“That’s...very kind of you, Sam.” Castiel takes the locket back, clasps it once more behind his neck. He could ask Charlie himself, of course. But after the last conversation they had, he doesn’t want her to think, not for a minute, that he wants to leave Dean. Sam’s giving him an out and he’s not ashamed to take it. “If she can find something, anything to point me in the right direction, I would be very grateful.”

“Of course.” The waitress brings their food and Sam digs into his grilled salmon on a bed of greens, garnished with lemon, with gusto. Castiel eats his mushroom risotto with a tad less enthusiasm, but a smile on his face. Sam pushes his plate towards Castiel so he can try his fish and then digs his fork into Castiel’s meal. He doesn’t mind, actually finds the action to be endearing. He’s glad that Sam is comfortable enough with him to act like that without a second thought.

The waitress asks if they want dessert and while they pass, they both take a cup of coffee to go. They walk around the center of town and Castiel tells Sam more about growing up at St. Ambrose’s.

“It wasn’t _bad_ really. Just...strange. And very sheltered. The first time I went to Lawrence, I was so shocked by everything I saw. The library seemed like a gift from God. We live very simply at the orphanage. We have no choice really. So all luxuries, even the small ones, make a mark.

“Sister Rachel caught on that I liked to read, so she would save newspapers, magazines on the rare occasion we were brought one by a visitor. She would bring me along on grocery runs when she could get away with it and leave me at the library while she did her shopping. I couldn’t ever take any of the books out--there was no way to ensure that I’d get them back in time and I certainly couldn’t afford late fees.

“So I would sit and read a book as long as I could, until Sister Rachel came to fetch me. And then I’d memorize the page number I was on, put it back on the shelf, and hope no one had taken it out when I came back to finish it. It didn’t always work out, sometimes I had to wait a few months to find out what happened because the book would have gotten borrowed or I didn’t get to go into town for a while--I’m pretty sure Mother Naomi knew about what Sister Rachel did because that was always her go to punishment when I made some sort of infraction. But it was something.”

“Sister Rachel sounds great, Cas,” Sam says, tossing his to go cup in a trash can on the sidewalk. “I’m glad you had her.”

“She’s no Dean, but she tried. I’m afraid I left her more exasperated than anything else. But I think, I hope, that she’s happy for me.”

“I’m sure she is.” Sam glances at his watch. “Bobby should be here soon. Within the hour, I think.”

“That’s good,” Castiel remarks, looking at a shop window displaying women’s clothing, dresses in bright colors, oranges and pinks and blues. The patterns are almost hypnotizing.

“Look, Cas,” Sam starts, his voice tentative. Immediately, Castiel focuses his attention on him. He recognizes that tone and it can mean nothing good. “I know this is probably none of my business but I just want you to know that you don’t _have_ to do this.”

“Do what, exactly?” Castiel replies, his gaze narrowing.

“Pretend to be the prince, just to help me, just to help _Dean_.”

“I’m not doing it for either of you,” Castiel snaps.

“Then _why_ are you doing it Cas?” And that is the question isn’t it? He wishes he knew what the answer was. “Really, really think about it. Because trust me, I get it if you’re conflicted. Hell, I am, and I’m the one Dean’s doing this for. We’ll be fine, Dean and I. If you back out.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t do that to him,” Castiel murmurs and huffs. “You know, Charlie basically said the same thing. That it was okay if I needed an out. I’m not sure what I’ve done to make both of you think I’ve been manipulated or coerced into doing this, but I haven’t. I’m a grown man, I make my own decisions, and I agreed to do this knowing full well that it was dubiously moral. And while it’s true that I’ve grown fond of your brother, I’m not so swayed by my feelings that I would enter into an arrangement where I was uncomfortable.”

“Okay Cas,” Sam says, hands up and placating. “I just...wanted to make sure, I guess.”

“Well, _I’m sure_ ,” Castiel insists.

The conversation ends, and so does the camaraderie between them. They wait another hour for Bobby to show up, tow truck and all, in strained silence and with sour moods.


	7. Chapter 6

Bobby Singer is a burly man with a beard and a trucker hat, a keen eye, and an attitude that takes no bullshit. Castiel doesn’t want to say he likes him right off, but there’s an easiness to his manner that makes Castiel feel like everything’s going to be alright. He hooks up the Impala to the truck and then him and Dean are clambering into the cab, ready to get going.

They all fit on the bench seat of the truck, but it’s a tight fit. There’s really no room to spare, which is how Castiel finds himself squashed with Sam on one side, Dean on the other. If Dean notices the tension between Sam and Castiel, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead he gives Castiel a relieved smile.

They don’t talk, all of them too tired and too grumpy to really carry on a conversation. Half an hour in, Dean’s fast asleep, head lolling onto Castiel’s shoulder. It sparks a rush of warmth through him and he can’t help but relax a bit himself, letting the tension drain out of him. He wraps one arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Bobby sees this out of the corner of his eye, but he just leans forward and turns the radio down.

He’s ready to forget the whole disagreement with Sam, but there’s one remark that’s gotten under his skin and he can’t help but pick at it.

_Why are you doing it?_ Sam had asked. It’s something he hasn’t been able to answer, not since the moment he said yes and got in Dean’s car. Sure, he found Dean and his reasoning compelling, but every bone in his body should have refused to participate in something like this. And while there had been that satisfying edge of proving Dean wrong when they first met, that is definitely not enough motivation to keep him going.

To be honest, Sam and Charlie are right. He’s in over his head, in more ways than one. He should be thankful that everyone is pointing out the open windows and emergency exits and beyond that, he should take advantage of them.

And sure, at first, he told himself that he was only going to go along with it far enough to get him to Eden. But that statement feels hollow now. The thought of abandoning the two brothers to their fates makes him sick.

Part of it is due to obligation, but it’s more than that, really; it’s a desire to see this through to the end, consequences and dangers be damned.

And then there’s hope, after all. Dangerous, dangerous hope.

He can’t get the look of that boy in the painting’s face out of his head. And while most of him doesn’t believe it, is working so hard not to, there’s a small tendril of hope that’s wrapped its way around his heart and squeezes it tight, almost painfully.

Because it’s a fairy tale. Castiel—a long lost prince? Sure, every lonely child hopes for some strange twist of fate to find them a real home. And while royalty is a mainstay for those with extravagant imaginations, Castiel certainly does not have one. Eight years in an orphanage and another two training to be a priest have drummed all that out of him. No one really gets a happily ever after, especially not people like Castiel—lost, confused, abandoned, _unwanted_.

But still, he wonders what it would feel like to prove the whole world wrong.

* * *

They pull up to Singer Salvage Yard when the sun is low in the sky. Bobby pulls around back, gets Dean’s baby into the garage without Dean even having to ask.

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean says, groggy and yawning as he supervises.

“You’re not to touch her at all tonight, boy. You and your brother need to get some rest.” Dean waves him off.

“We’re fine, Bobby, really.”

Bobby grunts. “Sure. Like I’m gonna believe that. I know you, Dean, and I can guarantee that you’ve been staying at crappy motels and driving too long and not taking care of yourself. So you should take this as a sign that you should slow down for a bit. Take a couple of days.”

“We wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Don’t be an idjit. You know you and any of your ragtag gang are welcome here.”

Dean grins. “Aww have you missed us, Bobby?”

“I’m starting to think that I shouldn’t have,” he retorts and turns to Castiel. “Now Dean and Sam I’ve known for far too long, but I don’t think they’ve ever mentioned you before.” Dean swings his arm around Castiel’s shoulders.

“New friend. Cas, this is Bobby. Old friend of my dad’s. Kinda like a crazy uncle, really. You know, the kind that believes in aliens and turns out to be right. Bobby, this is Cas. Ellen had heard about my...project, hooked us up.” If anything, this introduction only seems to have made Bobby more skeptical of Castiel. His eyebrows inch up into his hat and Castiel can feel his evaluating stare deep in his bones.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Castiel offers. Bobby grunts again.

“I ain’t got much to steal here, but if you’ve got any ideas, just know that I have a whole lot of shotguns and perfect aim.” He stalks into the house then, leaving Castiel and the Winchesters out in the garage alone. Sam claps Cas on the shoulder.

“Trust me when I say that means he likes you.” They gather their belongings out of the trunk of the car and head inside to join Bobby. He’s in the sitting room, the radio playing a drama that Castiel is only vaguely familiar with. One of the nuns enjoyed having it on while she did her gardening and, if he’s not mistaken, it’s about a man who falls in love with his best friend’s mistress.

Instead of joining him, Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulder and shepherds him up the stairs.

“You and me can share a room again,” he says into Castiel’s ear, causing him to shiver. “I mean, if you want.”

“Yes,” he replies, breathless, following Dean into a small bedroom. The room is paneled with dark wood that comes up halfway on the wall. The top is papered over with a deep green and gold stenciled pattern. There’s one window right next to the bed which is pushed against the wall. The blankets are a warm, deep mustard color, the sheets white.

Dean drops their bags on the floor by the end of the bed and then doubles back to make sure the door is closed.

He wraps his hands around Castiel’s neck then, pulls him closer and kisses him. They kiss for a while, standing at the foot of the bed, breathing each other in. It’s only been one day but Castiel already thinks he’ll never tire of kissing Dean. Dean’s hands drift down from his neck to his chest, one resting right over his heart.

“We should stop,” Dean says, pulling away. He stares right into Castiel’s eyes for a second, his face dumbstruck, awed. Unable to resist, he dips back in, presses one more kiss to Castiel’s lips then takes a step back, putting some space between them. Castiel whimpers, eyes shuttering closed at the loss of contact. “You’re killing me dude.”

“We don’t have to stop,” Castiel says, voice low and rough. Dean chuckles softly.

“Yeah, we do. It’s been a long day and we’re both too tired.” Dean reaches for his duffle bag and digs through it for the smaller bag that holds his toiletries. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up.”

Castiel takes the moment alone to take a few deep breaths, settle himself down. He changes into his pajamas and, once Dean returns from the restroom, takes care of his own ablutions before he’s entirely ready to settle in for the night.

Dean’s already waiting for him on the bed, under the covers and facing the wall, his back to Castiel. It’s as clear an invitation as any words. Castiel lifts the covers, settles in, and shuts off the lamp on the bedside table. Then, he sidles up behind Dean, aligning their bodies until they’re spooned together. He presses a kiss behind Dean’s ear and the other man squirms slightly, ticklish.

“Night Cas,” he says.

“Good night Dean,” he responds. They sleep.

* * *

_He’s skipping stones at the pond, although he’s not doing it with any great skill. More than once the rock just plops into the water, making a little splash and a mass of ripples spreading out along the water in front of him. These moments are almost more satisfying than when he gets the stone to go three, four, five skips before it sinks to the bottom, but he does not give into the urge to just throw rocks at the water. That would be uncouth and Tutor Inias and Hester have reprimanded him more than once for his common behavior. Hannah is a little more understanding, but not that much. She lectures him too about upholding decorum and usually gets halfway through her rant before she sighs, knows he’s not listening._

_He skips three more rocks, the last one making a bigger splash than all the others, when he realizes he isn’t alone. Hannah--he’s sure it’s her, can feel it from his head to his toes--- is next to him, crouched down in the mud and the grass as he throws rocks into the water._

_“It’s okay if you’re mad,” she says, her voice calm and serene and the sentence makes him stiffen, an acute sense of deja vu settling over him._

_“I’m not mad,” he replies because that’s what he’s supposed to say, that’s how this conversation goes._

_“That’s okay too,” she says and her lips quirk up slightly. He knows that smile, knows that it means she knows he’s not telling the entire truth. She’s right of course—he is a little bit angry. Because it’s just not fair. Everyone he loves leaves him, first mother, then father, and now Hannah is going to go off and get married while he has to stay behind and run the country._

_He doesn’t want to be a prince and he certainly never wants to become king. If he could do anything in the world, he’d stay here, at the pond, skipping rocks without a care in the world. Part of the reason he likes doing it so much is because he saw Dean do it the other day, teaching little Sam how to make the rocks jump from one spot to the next. He was too shy to ask if Dean would teach him too but Uriel noticed where his attention was and showed him how the next day._

_He wishes life were simpler. He wishes that duty didn’t come before everything._

_“I don’t want you to go,” he croaks, his voice breaking. He reaches out, loops one hand around her ankle and nuzzles into her knee. The contact helps to ground him, reassures him that she’s not gone yet, they still have time._

_“Oh Jimmy. I don’t want to go either. But I have to.”_

_“I’m going to be all alone.”_

_“You’ll have Uriel. And Tutor Inias.” He frowns at this. Uriel is a great body guard and Tutor Inias, while somewhat bothersome, seems to have a soft spot for him. He slips him sweets when he’s done a good job, gotten all the correct answers when he tests him. They both care for him, in a way, but neither of them are his friend._

_He doesn’t really have any friends. Even Hannah is more of a sister and a mother than she is a friend. He wonders, if he wasn’t a prince, would he have friends? Or would people still be as much of a mystery then?_

_“But they_ have _to be around me. They’re servants.”_

_“You’re going to be able to join me eventually. You’ll grow up and get older. And I can come back to visit.” She says it wistfully and he knows that it’s more of a wish than a promise. Hannah, no more than he, can guarantee that they’ll be reunited. Their days together are coming to an end._

_“But that’s years and years and years away.” And even then, there’s no way they’ll ever be able to go back to how things are now. There will be too much time, too much space, too much change between them. She leans down to his level, pulls him to her chest, holds him tight._

_“I know. You’ll be okay though. I know it.” He knows it too. He’s certainly not weak. And while he’ll bear it, endure the loneliness and the heavy pressure of responsibility, that does not mean that, in this one moment, he can’t be selfish, can’t wish with all his might that things could be different._

_She’s shifting, her hands releasing him and grasping for the locket that mother gifted her after she became sick. She undoes the clasp, brings it closer to him so he can really get a look at it. “You know mom gave this to me right? I was about as old as you.”_

_“I know,” he confirms. They’re mother had taken ill shortly after Hannah’s ninth birthday. She didn’t live to see her tenth. He was three; he only remembers what he’s been told. He’s not even sure if he can describe her. There’s a warmth in his heart when he thinks about her and a faint, echoey imitation of what he thinks her voice must have sounded like, but that’s it. There are no clear cut memories, no moments that he can recall._

_“Have you ever looked inside it?” He shakes his head and she undoes the clasp holding it closed. Inside is a small map, etched painstakingly into the gold, the details tiny and precise. On the one side is the whole country, the place where Eden stands marked with a small star. On the other, the words ‘So your heart will always know where I am’ are engraved it neat, clear script._

_“It’s Eden,” he breathes out._

_“Mother gave it to me before she left me behind for a treatment,” Hannah confirms, her voice tinged with sadness. “I want you to hold on to it for me, okay?” He stills, aware of how great a gift she is bestowing on him._

_“But…”_

_“Just until we meet again,” she tries to reassure. He looks back at the locket, at the star marking their capital, the place where his sister is going to go and live out the rest of her days._

_“Okay.”_

_“Come on,” she tells him, getting to her feet. He follows suit. “we should head in before they send Uriel out to get us. You know he won’t be happy if he finds us both out after dark.” They walk hand in hand towards the palace. They’re halfway there when there’s a loud crack of thunder, lightning in the sky. Suddenly, he’s alone._

_“Hannah?” He calls out into the dark. “Hannah! I’m scared.”_

_“Jimmy,” she calls out, her voice foggy and far away. “Jimmy. Come back to me. I haven’t stopped searching for you.” He reaches out ahead of him, towards where he thinks she’s calling from, but his hand meets nothing but air._

_“I don’t...I can’t get to you. I don’t know where you are.” He’s panicking now, his breathing heavy and adrenaline coursing underneath his skin. “I don’t know who you are.”_

_“Remember,” she implores. “Why don’t you remember me?”_

Castiel wakes up gasping, alone in bed, the sheets and blankets tangled around his body. Dean’s not there and a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table lets him know that it’s already mid-morning. Part of him is intensely disappointed that Dean’s already gone, that he’s somehow crawled out around him, that he didn’t wake Castiel up with him. He aches to be able to wake up with Dean, to open his eyes and see the man still slumbering next to him, content. He longs for sweet, early morning kisses when sleep is still in their eyes and playful fumblings under the covers.

But in this case, it’s a good thing Dean isn’t with him. He’s not sure how he’d explain the tossing and turning in his sleep, the sweat of exertion that is clinging to his skin, or the panting need for breath once his eyes opened.

He’s also not sure how he’d explain that no, that wasn’t a nightmare. He’s pretty damn sure that it’s a memory.

* * *

The house is empty when he pads downstairs, showered and dressed, having gathered all his courage to leave the safety of the guest room. He checks the kitchen first and isn’t overly surprised to see it empty. It’s already going on ten in the morning and it’s long past breakfast time, especially for early risers. He’s hesitant to just open the fridge up and help himself though. Bobby’s warning from the night before about shotguns is still very vivid in his mind.

So he explores a bit under the guise of looking for someone to ask about getting something to eat. The den is deserted and the bathroom is free. The basement, while incredibly sketchy, is likewise empty. The dining room looks like it hasn’t been used in years. The only place left, other than the bedrooms, is the garage and when Castiel realizes this, he feels a little stupid for not checking there first.

The hood of the Impala is up and Dean and Bobby are both there, leaning over its insides, their backs to him. They haven’t noticed that Castiel is there while they tinker away and he’s content to leave them be. It feels a bit like spying, but the sight of Dean bent over a car in just a dirty t-shirt and jeans is tantalizing enough that he just wants to enjoy the view.

It’s only when they start to talk that Castiel really feels like he’s intruding.

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing, boy?” Bobby asks and Dean stills. Eavesdropping was never his intent, but it definitely has it’s purposes. Silently and slowly, Castiel presses himself behind the entryway. He can still hear them, can still see them, but unless they’re looking closely for him, he’s mostly invisible.

“Doing what?”

Bobby snorts. “Don’t play dumb, son. You and that messy-haired fool.”

Dean shrugs. “Not really doing anything, to be honest. He’s scratching our back, we’re scratching his.”

“Oh is that all it is?”

“Jeez, Bobby, didn’t know that you were so obsessed with my love life.”

“Only when it looks like you’re in over your head.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Dean insists. “I like him. He’s...a weird, dorky, little dude, but I like him. And he likes me. Nothing more to it than that.” The warmth of relief, of knowing that, on some level, his feelings are reciprocated bubbles up under his skin and he has to bite his lip to stop the smile from overtaking his face.

“Just...be careful, Dean.” He puts a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’ve heard the phrase ‘Don’t shit where you eat,’ right? Partnerships like this have more power to harm than to help.”

“I’ll be fine, Bobby.” Dean replies, shrugging him off.

“If you say so.” Bobby clears his throat, gestures back towards the Impala. “Your carburetor’s shot. I got a whole bunch laying around, you know that, but they ain’t in much better shape than what you got. I’ll give Rufus a call, see if he can fast track a new one for you.”

“How much do I owe ya?” Dean asks, wiping his dirty hands off on a rag already smudged with oil and grease. Bobby smacks him upside the head.

“Stupid ain’t a good look on you.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean says, fond and grateful. They pull the hood of the Impala closed and Castiel chooses that moment to quietly slink back into the main part of the house. 

* * *

The afternoon finds all of them holed up in the den. The radio is on again, playing the same program from before and Bobby and Dean are paying rapt attention to the ongoing saga of Juan and Aurora’s forbidden love. From what Castiel can tell, Aurora’s just left Felix, her fiance, at the altar and her and Juan are trying to get out of the city unseen, avoiding the fallout. Sam and Castiel are doing their best to ignore them, spreading out on the coffee table and going over new swaths of information about the Prince.

He’s reading up on the boy’s food allergies--shellfish and sensitivity to dairy, both of which he has--when Sam casually says, “You know how to dance, right Cas?” Castiel pauses in his reading, glances up with a frown.

“Not really.”

Sam grimaces and Dean whirls around. “You don’t know how to dance?” he asks, shocked.

Castiel shrugs. “I’ve never had much of an occasion, to be honest.”

“Says here,” Sam points out, “the prince took ballroom lessons from the time he was five.”

“You can’t really think they’re going to make me dance to prove I’m royalty,” Castiel says exasperated but Sam and Dean are already on their feet and rearranging the furniture. Bobby looks on, amused, as they push the sofa and the coffee table to the walls, leaving the floor free of obstacles. “What do you two think you’re doing?”

“Teaching you to dance,” Dean says, matter of fact. “Come on, up and at ‘em, Twinkle Toes.”

“This is ridiculous,” Castiel replies, but gets up anyways. “I’m not going to be some sort of ballroom dancing champion in a matter of hours.”

“Yeah, but we can at least teach you enough to make it look like you know what you’re doing,” Sam says, going over to the radio and switching the station. “Sorry Bobby.”

“Oh trust me, Sam. This has the potential to be more entertaining than my soap opera ever could be.” He adjusts the dial, going through some commercials, static, and a song with a little too much swing in it for doing a waltz. Finally, he settles on a station playing soft piano music. He listens for a second before nodding his head.

“This’ll do, won’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “We should definitely start slow.” He holds out his arms in position, a clear invitation for Castiel to fall in. Hesitantly, he steps forward, places one hand on Dean’s bicep, the other in his hand.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah, Cas, you’re fine. So I’m going to lead, at least until you get the hang of it, and then I’ll let you give it a try, okay?”

Castiel sighs. “I guess.”

“Okay, so when I step forward, you step back.” Dean presses one leg forward, brushing past Castiel’s and he shivers at the contact. Slowly, he brings the leg back until they’re standing, frozen, in position. “Now, to the side.”

Castiel watches, follows the long line of Dean’s leg as he sweeps it to the left, matching the movement with his own. “Bring your feet together,” Dean concludes. “And turn.” Castiel does, his step still unsure.

“That’s it?” He asks and Sam laughs.

“Yeah, Cas. There’s a bit more to it than that, but that’s the basic step.”

“It’s kinda like making a box with your feet,” Dean supplies. “You wanna try again?”

“Please,” Castiel replies, straightening his posture. They take off, their first few steps a little clumsy and uncertain. Castiel still spends most of his time looking down at his feet, but he’s got a rhythm going, even if he has to count it out loud. “ _One_ two three,” he murmurs to himself, over and over, each step he completes.

“Dude, you gotta loosen up a bit,” Dean says once they make a complete turn of the room. “And stop looking at your feet.”

“I’ve never waltzed before Dean. Cut me some slack.”

Dean laughs. “It’s not that hard.”

“Well maybe some of us aren’t as rhythmically gifted as you are,” he shoots back. Bobby and Sam erupt in laughter from the sidelines while Dean just rolls his eyes. “How do you even know how to dance, anyways?”

“I’m a man of many talents, Cas.” He winks at him and Castiel can’t help where that wink takes his mind. He blushes bright red and Dean leans and gives him a quick kiss. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“Ugh,” Sam groans from his perch on the couch.

“You two are going to give us diabetes,” Bobby gripes. “Stop making heart eyes at each other and get on with it. If one of you wanted to trip or something, add some excitement to this whole routine, we wouldn’t mind.”

“If anyone’s tripping, it’s going to be Cas,” Dean replies. “I’m too smooth.”

“Oh really?” For revenge, Castiel sticks out his leg, trips Dean, sends him stumbling into Castiel’s chest. “Yeah, real smooth, Winchester.”

“You’re such a dick,” Dean says, but he’s smiling as he says it, clearly not annoyed.

“Oh god, this is almost worse than the kissing,” Bobby grumbles and he gets up from his armchair. “I’m getting out of here while I still can. You coming with me, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Dean’s brother says, going to follow Bobby out of the den. Dean smiles brilliantly at them as they leave, leading him around the room still, _one_ two three, _one_ two three, until they’re finally alone. At this point, Castiel is starting to get the hang of dancing, isn’t even looking at his feet anymore. He follows the movement with his body, leaning back and to the side where their steps take them and staying on the balls of his feet so his movements are more nimble. Dean is staring straight at him as the quiet piano music speeds up a bit to the climax before mellowing out and wrapping up.

“Do you want to try leading?” Dean asks as the next song queues up, a soft twinkling sound of piano keys being played.

“Please,” Castiel says and they fix their positioning, Castiel’s hand on Dean’s waist, Dean’s now on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel steps forward with his right leg and Dean moves his left one back in tandem and they’re off. They make it around the small sitting room a couple of times before Dean stops abruptly. “Dean?”

“Sorry, just. Dizzy,” Dean says.

“Oh. We can stop,” Castiel offers, dropping his arms and taking a step back to separate them.

“No.” Dean shuffles forward. “I don’t want to stop.”

He’s not talking about dancing, Castiel realizes.

“I don’t either.”

“Good,” Dean exhales. “That’s good.” Castiel takes pity on him then; he reaches out, fists his hands in the fabric of his flannel shirt, pulling Dean towards him and kissing him. He stumbles slightly, jarred by the movement, and one hand comes up to rest warmly on Castiel’s chest, bracing himself. It’s not long before it snakes its way down his side, sneaks up underneath his shirt until it’s laying comfortingly on the small of his back.

The piano music eventually stops and a new song begins to play. They pay it no mind as they continue to kiss, slow and sweet with the afternoon sunlight filtering through the drapes, blanketing them in its glow.

 


	8. Chapter 7

For the second time since they’ve come to stay with Bobby, Castiel finds himself peeking around the door into the garage. This time, however, Dean is alone. The new part for the car has come in finally, couriered over by a friend of a friend, Rufus Turner. Bobby reported that he was a grumpy son of a bitch who runs a garage about five hours away. Dean’s installing it now, bent over the hood of the Impala and Castiel _knows_ he’s staring but he can’t help it.

“You gonna stand behind the door all day or are you going to come in here and join me?” Dean calls out after Castiel has been watching silently for five minutes, just standing in the doorway. Dean wiggles his hips a bit and Castiel’s eyes track the movement, mesmerized.

“That depends,” he finally answers, his voice still a bit too unfocused for his liking.

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’re okay with me having my way with you over the hood of your car,” he says, casually, struggling to keep a straight face. Dean stills in front of him and turns to look over his shoulder, his face incredulous.

“Are you serious?”

“Very,” he replies, deep and throaty. Dean shudders slightly.

“It’s not that I’m not down for that,” Dean says, straightening up and closing the hood with a ‘thud’. “But you gotta admit, that’s not gonna be very comfortable for you or for me.”

“Ah.” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice but by the look on Dean’s face, he doesn’t do a very good job.

“Hey, not saying that sex isn’t on the table. Back seat’s empty.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Castiel laughs, finally stepping into the garage.

“Is that so?” He presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek. Dean closes his eyes and hums, content. He snakes his arms around Castiel’s middle, hands splayed on his back and the curve of his hip. Castiel continues to pepper his face with kisses, soft and sweet, on his forehead, the tip of his nose, his other cheek. He presses light ones on his eyelids before finally sealing the deal, settling on his lips.

“Yeah,” Dean says, breathless, when Castiel finally pulls back. “I’m game if you are.”

“I might be persuaded.” He pushes Dean back until he’s pressed against the car, their kisses now filled with heat and intent. Castiel yanks Dean’s t-shirt up, eager to get his hands on naked skin. Dean groans at the feel of Castiel hands on his stomach, his sides, trailing up and down his ribs. He pulls away and quickly takes his shirt off, throwing it to the side, before his lips are back on Castiel’s with a vengeance.  Castiel reaches for the door to the back seat, fumbling with it a few times before he jerks it open. He grabs Dean by the belt buckle, pulls him and shoves him into the backseat. He lands with an “oof”, but he’s grinning up Castiel as he scoots farther into the car.

“You gonna join me anytime soon, or do I have to get this party started myself?””

“Don’t you dare,” Castiel growls, climbing into the back seat and straddling Dean’s thighs. Dean grabs at his shoulders, bends him forwards so he can sweep his tongue back into Castiel’s mouth. He runs his hands through Castiel’s hair, mussing it up, so it’s sticking up every which way, uncontrolled. Castiel moans at the feeling, leaning his head back and into Dean’s hands. Satisfied with his handiwork, his hands trail back down, one resting on Castiel’s shoulder, the on the back of his neck, dipping below Castiel’s collar. It isn’t long before his hands come forward, clumsily working the buttons on his shirt open in a desperate search for more skin.

Dean’s halfway down his shirt when Castiel reaches up, stops his hands and sits up, panting. Dean lets out a soft, high pitched sound that’s somewhere between a keen and a whimper at the loss of contact.

“Stop,” Castiel says, still breathless. He can feel Dean’s erection below him, hot and hard even through the thick denim that still covers it.

“What’s wrong?” Dean shifts so he’s leaning up on his elbows, his expression drawn and concerned. “Too much?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “No it’s not that. I still want to. I really, really do.” He grinds his own hard on against Dean’s thigh and the man beneath him groans, eyes falling shut.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“We can’t. Not here.”

Dean’s face screws up in confusion. “I mean, that’s fine, but you seemed pretty down with the idea not that long ago.”

“It’s just...Sam.”

“ _Sam_?” Dean spits out, incredulous.

“ _Yes_ , Dean. He specifically asked that we don’t have sex in the car,” Castiel snaps back. Dean blinks once, twice, and then he’s fallen back down against the seat and is laughing so hard, Castiel has to steady himself against the headrest of the front seat.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks. Dean wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.

“I just can’t believe that my younger brother managed to cockblock me and he’s not even present.” He’s giggling again, his face flushed from mirth and lack of air. He’s absolutely beautiful. Castiel bends down and tries to kiss him, but Dean turns away, letting Castiel’s lips brush his cheek in rebuff.

“Oh don’t you dare _pout_ ,” Dean accuses with a pointed finger. “You’re the one that said we had to stop. I, personally, do not have a problem messing with my brother.”

“But Dean--”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, scooting back a bit more so he’s sitting up with Castiel in his lap. “No more canoodling until we relocate.”

Castiel is off him like a shot and Dean’s laughter echoes against the roof of the car. When he catches his breath again, he crawls out of the car to meet a waiting Castiel. They sneak, hand in hand, back into the house. Bobby is out on a grocery run, but Sam’s curled up in the den with a book. They steal kisses along the way, at one point getting so out of hand that Dean presses Castiel against the fridge, hands fisted in his partially unbuttoned shirt, twisting and wringing the fabric between his fingers, while Castiel moans against him, loud and throaty.

By the time they mount the stairs, they aren’t even attempting to mask their footsteps or the soft, sweet noises that they try to coax from each other each time they stop to kiss. Judging from the way that Sam increases the volume on the radio, he’s definitely heard more than he ever wanted to.

Finally, they’re ensconced in their room, the door closing with a soft click. They stare at each other, before they come together, falling into each other. There’s less heat between them now, each kiss languid and long. Castiel’s hands roam Dean’s shoulders and back, reveling in the expanse of skin, the strong muscle underneath.

“Let me undress you,” Dean says, pressing kisses to Castiel’s jawline, nipping occasionally when the mood strikes him. “Please?”

Castiel moans softly at the thought and in lieu of an answer, grabs Dean’s hands and guides them to his shirt.

Dean undresses him reverently, taking his time. Each remaining button popped is followed by a deep, sensual kiss that makes Castiel’s knees wobble. Once all of them are undone, Dean pushes it off his shoulders and down his arms, lets it fall to the ground. He reaches for his belt next and Castiel’s breath hitches as he stiffens. Dean pauses, looks him right in the eye.

“This okay?” Castiel nods. “Need to hear you say it, babe.”

“Yes,” Castiel replies.

“If you change your mind…” Dean trails off, the end of the sentence going unspoken. Castiel knows that he’ll stop if he says so, has concrete proof of it already, but the reassurance warms him from the inside out.

“I know,” he says, looking Dean straight in the eye. He caresses his face, before cupping one hand along his jaw and rubbing his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. “It’s alright. I want to.”

Dean tips his head up, captures Castiel’s thumb in his mouth and sucks at it. He gasps and shudders at the sensation, can’t help but imagine how it would feel on other parts of his body. Dean undoes his belt and slips it from the loops before dropping it on top of where his shirt has pooled on the floor. His pants are next, falling to the floor after Dean pops the button and Castiel steps out of them, carefully leaving the fabric behind. Dean slides a hand underneath the waistband of his boxers, playfully strokes Castiel’s hard cock, straining against the seam, before he pushes them down as well.

He stands before Dean, bare as the day he was born, and it feels right. Not wasting any time, Dean shucks his own jeans and underwear, and then they’re falling on the bed, Castiel pinned below the comforting weight of Dean’s body. Dean kisses down his neck and his chest, laving at one nipple while he flicks the other one with his nail. Castiel shudders, cries out at the sensation, then whimpers as Dean moves on. He kisses Castiel’s stomach, his hip, then works down his leg.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel growls, hips jerking as Dean pointedly ignores his erection, laying hard and red and wet on his stomach. Dean just smirks at him before he takes the head of his dick between his lips. He bobs his head down the shaft and it’s warm and wet and it feels so good. Castiel’s fists clench in the sheets. Dean spends a couple more minutes sucking and bobbing and Castiel writhes on the bed, eyes shut, hurtling towards the precipice when Dean pulls off him with a small ‘pop’.

“You doin’ alright there, Angel?” he asks. Castiel opens his eyes, an annoyed retort at the tip of his tongue, but the sight of the slick, spit shine on Dean’s kissed red lips, the hooded eyes and blown pupils, the mussed up hair make him drop his head back on the bed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans and Dean laughs. “Please don’t stop.”

“As much as I’d like to keep going, I don’t think you’re going to last,” he remarks before pressing a kiss to the head of his dick. “And I’ve got other plans in mind.” Dean pushes off the bed then and a wave of cool, refreshing air washes over him in his absence.

“Dean?” Castiel questions, leaning up to watch as Dean walks over to the en-suite bathroom. He reappears a moment later, a condom and a bottle of lube in his hand.

“I’m like a boy scout,” he says with a grin, “Always prepared.” He tears open the condom and rolls it down the length of Castiel’s cock before he opens up the bottle of lube and drips it over his fingers. He straddles Castiel’s thighs and reaches behind himself, beginning to open himself up. Castiel whimpers and bites his lip, watching the show as it unfolds.

Dean dips one finger in at first, the two, scissoring them open to stretch out his rim. He grunts softly before moaning, his fingers clearly brushing at his prostate. With his head thrown back and his chest flushed from arousal, Castiel can’t help but think he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He reaches out, strokes Dean’s reddened cock once, before he’s stopped by Dean’s hand on his wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, “it’s too much. Wanna come with you inside me.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel breathes out. “You can’t just say things like that.” And that seems to cut through some of the sex fueled haze they are both currently in because Dean stops fingering himself and looks Castiel directly in the eye, a smirk on his face.

“Why? Does it get you all hot and bothered, Cas?”

“Dean, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re naked, in bed together, and we both have erections. Yes, I’m hot and bothered. If I had it my way, we both would have already come by now.”

“Oh don’t be like that. Sometimes you gotta drag it out. Trust me, it’ll be worth it—so much better than quickie.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“You better not disappoint then, Winchester,” Castiel says, voice wrecked.

“Trust me,” he says. He pours a little more lube onto his fingers but this time, he spreads it over Castiel’s latex-covered cock. And then he’s on top of Castiel, guiding his dick into him. Dean groans as he continues to sink onto him and Castiel is pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breathe. It’s hot and tight and wet and he feels such a strong array of emotions all at once. There’s joy and love and pleasure and desire all running through his veins, taking over his body one cell at a time. It’s overwhelming.

He trembles, reaching one shaky hand up, seeking Dean out. Dean, thankfully, knows immediately what he wants, what he _needs_ , and he entwines their fingers together, squeezing tight. Once he’s fully seated himself on Castiel’s cock, he brings their combined hands up to his lips so he can kiss Castiel’s knuckles. And while the gesture in comforting, it’s nothing compared to when Dean murmurs into his skin, “I got you, Cas. It’s okay, baby, I got you,” never once breaking eye contact.

“Dean,” he gasps the other man’s name like a cherished prayer, his hips thrusting upwards involuntarily. Dean grins, then pushes himself up so he can sink down once more. It feels like every nerve in his body sparks and he gasps, the breath punched out of him, as Dean begins to ride him in earnest.

They don’t close their eyes, barely even take the time to blink. Castiel is hypnotized by the sight in front of him, by the green eyed stare that’s boring directly into his own. Their fingers are still locked together, their grips tight to the point of pain, although Castiel can’t feel it, not really. And then something shifts in the air, in the expression on Dean’s face.

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that wasn’t there before and it makes Castiel suck in a short, shuddering breath. Because he can see it now, can see the love and the wanting and the affection. He’s awed by its appearance, hopes to God that Dean can see it reflected back at him in his own gaze, because he feels it too, feels it just as strongly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean’s hips stutter, and his thighs begin to quiver where they’re braced around Castiel’s hips. Castiel pushes himself up a bit with his free hand, slightly concerned.

“Dean?” he questions, but Dean doesn’t stop, just rocks his hips, grinding into Castiel’s as his dick brushes over Dean’s prostate.

“Fuck,” He repeats and it’s his turn to shudder and gasp, burning with need and overwhelmed. “ _Cas_. Fuck, right there.”

“I got you,” Castiel repeats back to him. He gives him a slow, deep kiss before lying back down on the bed so he can bring his free hand up to rest on the curve of Dean’s hip. “I got you this time.”

“Nggghhh,” Dean grunts and he pistons himself up and down once more. Castiel squeezes his hand.

“It’s okay Dean. Let go for me,” he says, “You’re almost there, just come for me. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Their eyes are still locked as Dean reaches down, palms his hard, aching cock and then strokes himself once, twice, three times before he’s coming all over Castiel’s chest. The clenching of his hole sets Castiel also over the edge, and he comes right after Dean with a grunt. They stay where they are, panting and catching their breath, before Dean falls forward, absolutely spent.

Castiel kisses Dean’s temple after he settles in on top of him, Dean’s head on his chest.

“Worth it?” Dean questions with an exhausted grin.

“Worth it,” he agrees. They should probably get up, get cleaned off at the very least, Castiel thinks, but he doesn’t feel like moving. And from the way Dean flopped down, boneless, earlier, Castiel doubts that Dean’s up for it either.

It can wait, he thinks, his eyes drifting shut. They lay tangled up in each other for quite a while, the only sound in the room their still ragged breaths.

* * *

 

At some point, Castiel must have drifted off to sleep because he wakes up to Dean carefully wiping down his skin with a damp washcloth, cleaning away the remains of their recent activity. When he notices that Castiel is awake, he smiles brilliantly up at him, leaning in for a kiss.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Dean,” he acknowledges with a smile of his own. “Thank you.” Dean shrugs.

“Don’t mention it. Not saying it was the best orgasm of my life, but that was definitely up there, top five at least. Figured this was the least I could do.” He gets back up to toss the cloth into the hamper before coming back to the bed, settling in next to Castiel. The moment he’s back under the covers, Castiel reaches out for him, scooting closer so that he can rest his head on Dean’s chest.

“So what was?” Castiel asks.

“What was what?”

“The best orgasm of your life.” Dean laughs, thinking Castiel is joking. “I’m serious.”

“Why, you wanna know what your competition is?”

“Something like that.” When Dean doesn’t respond right away, he can’t help but feel like he’s overstepped. “I’m sorry. It’s personal, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Nah man, it’s fine,” Dean reassures, although it sounds a bit forced to Castiel’s ears.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

Dean shrugs, face pensive. “Rhonda Hurley,” he says finally, like Castel is supposed to know who she is. “Man, I met her like three years ago in a bar. She was just passing through, you know, but we hit it off. Took me back to her hotel room and after we made out for a little while, she uh. She talked me into trying on her panties.” Just the thought has Cas drawing in a deep, shaky breath.

“They were pink. And satiny. And I’m not gonna lie--I kinda liked it. More than kinda. She fucked me with a strap on while I was still wearing them and I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life. Although what we just got up to is definitely a close second.”

“I bet you looked beautiful,” Castiel says, his eyes wide with want as he stares up into Dean’s face. Dean winks at him.

“Well I am completely up for a reenactment at some point, if you are.” Castiel groans, burying his face into Dean’s chest, before making eye contact once more.

“Don’t tease me. You have no idea how much I want you, Dean Winchester,” he says, voice strained. Above him, Dean’s face softens.

“If it’s anything like how much I want you, then yeah, I have an idea.” He says it so softly that Castiel feels he’s almost imagined it. But the sincerity and affection splayed across Dean’s face cannot be mistaken. The moment between them stretches on, the air charged and thick, almost hypnotic in its intensity.  

“Okay so, what was your best?” Dean eventually asks, and the tension eases slightly.

“Orgasm? Pretty sure you witnessed it, not that long ago.”

Dean laughs. “Okay, second best then. And if you say it was that handy in the shower a couple days ago, I’m gonna feel real sorry for you, buddy.”

“That was enjoyable,” Castiel protests.

“Yeah, but like, top five enjoyable?” Dean raises an eyebrow at him, skeptical. Castiel shrugs.

“Not everyone has as varied or frequent a sex life as you, Dean.”

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you were a virgin,” he says, eyes widening.

“And if I was?”

“Dude, you shoulda said something. I would’ve at least made some sort of effort to make it I don’t know...special or some shit.”

Castiel laughs. “Rest assured, I wasn’t,” he says with an amused smile on his lips. “But if I had been, trust me Dean, it would have been plenty special.” He presses a soft kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Okay,” Dean concedes. “But you still haven’t answered my question.” Unable to think of a way to get out of it, Castiel sighs.

“I lost my virginity when I was seventeen. Daphne had also been at the orphanage for a long time and it was no secret that she was infatuated with me.”

“Was it good?” Castiel frowns, contemplative.

“It wasn’t _bad_ ,” he supplies. “But it was not long after that that I met Balthazar in seminary. What he was doing there, I’ll never really understand, as he was the least likely man I’d ever peg to become a priest. He was a lush in every sense of the word--enjoyed good food, good wine, and plenty of men and women, and he wasn’t ever very good at hiding it. But his great aunt was rich and a particular donor to the church, so for the most part, the bishops turned a blind eye to his behavior.

“We became good friends, him and I. Of course, sheltered as I was, I thought he was being nice when really, he was flirting shamelessly with me. I learned a lot from him, but it was clear to both of us that, while we liked each other, there was no real future for us. I was committed to my path and Balthazar, well. Six months later, he took off in the middle of the night, taking some priceless church relics with him.” Dean winces.

“Yikes. Did he at least say goodbye?”

“In his own way, I suppose,” he replies, thinking of the desperate, eager, rushed sex they’d had the night before he fled. Castiel shifts on the bed so he’s facing Dean. “I suppose his goodbye could be counted as one of those in the top five, although it’s a little tainted by the hurt I felt after he was gone.” He reaches out, rests his hand on Dean’s waist, drawing comfort from the contact.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says. He brushes his lips across Castiel’s forehead and Castiel can’t help the contented smile that crosses his lips.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Dean. Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it for a very long time.”

“You deserve better.”

“Maybe. I don’t regret it though.” He yawns then, unable to fight back the sleepiness that’s settled deep into his bones. “And there you have it--the whole of my sexual history. There wasn’t anyone else until I met you. I think I’m gonna take a nap now. You’re welcome to join me.” He closes his eyes. Dean laughs.

“As much as I’d like to, I really gotta get back to working on Baby. Almost got her all fixed up. We should be able to leave in the morning.”

“Okay,” Castiel agrees, already half asleep. Dean leans forward and kisses him.

“Get some rest, Cas. I’ll wake you for dinner.” The bed creaks as he gets up and the soft sounds of Dean shuffling around the room, getting dressed again make something twist inside of him. He can imagine hearing them every day, can imagine a life where he and Dean are together for good, living together and sharing a space. It’s a dangerous line of thinking, he knows, but he can’t fight it off when he’s already halfway into dreamland.

The door closes behind Dean with a quiet click and it isn’t long after that that his mind pulls him headfirst into another long-buried memory.

* * *

 

When he wakes up it’s dark, and Dean is sleeping next to him, snoring lightly. The clock next to the bed is flashing 1:32 am and he stares at it, not entirely focused. He’d had another memory and the wisps of it, broken and disjointed are still fluttering through his mind. He was sitting in the lap of a man--he can only assume it was the former king, his _father_ \--while he read to him, his voice deep and steady. Hannah was curled up next to them on the couch in the library, head leaning against the back of while their father continued to tell the tale. She was smiling, her eyes soft, face relaxed.

He remembers feeling the tug of his own smile at his lips, the story bringing him immeasurable delight. He got boisterous, restless, sitting there. His father’s hand had pressed against his shoulder, a calming, tethering weight.

He doesn’t remember what the story was, but it was so long ago and he was so young. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t have remembered, even if all his memories had been intact.

Unlike the last memory, this one doesn’t leave his heart beating wildly in his chest, but it does leave a deep, aching loneliness that he feels to his very core. He misses them, he realizes. Even though he can barely remember them, he misses the feeling of being loved and included.

If it weren’t for the late hour and the knowledge that they’ll be departing at first light, Castiel would have no compunctions about rolling over and waking Dean up. As it is, they’ve still got a considerable distance to cover before they reach their destination and Dean, Castiel knows, will push himself to the limits to make up for the lost time. He needs his rest more than Castiel needs his comfort.

So he quietly slips out of bed and pads to the door. It creaks as he opens it and, wincing, he peers over his shoulder. Dean shifts in his sleep, rolling over into the spot he just vacated, but he doesn’t wake. Relief washes through him. With one last look at his sleeping lover, he leaves. As he walks down the stairs, his stomach grumbles and he remembers that he’s missed dinner. He lets his feet lead him directly to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light. The glow from the fridge will be enough.

“There’s a covered plate in there for you. Leftovers from dinner.” Castiel just about jumps out of his skin, startled by the sudden voice. There’s the soft click of the light switch and then he can see that Bobby’s leaning against the doorway, eyebrows raised, stare piercing. Castiel presses a hand over his heart, hoping that the pressure will help it slow down from its frantic beating against his ribcage.

“You startled me,” Castiel says. Bobby shrugs and enters the kitchen more fully. He reaches for the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a bottle of whiskey before getting himself a glass and having a seat at the rickety table in the corner.

“Dean didn’t want to wake you—thought you needed the rest.”

“I suppose I can understand the sentiment,” he retorts, turning back to the open refrigerator. Just like Bobby said, there’s a plate on the top shelf covered in tin foil, a piece of paper taped to it that says ‘Cas’. He lifts off the foil, taking a peek at what’s to eat: there’s grilled chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans. He smiles looking at the spread, warmed by the thought of Dean carefully putting aside a portion for him.

It feels good to be remembered.

He sticks the plate in the oven to warm it up then takes a seat across from Bobby who’s drinking slowly. He never looks away from Castiel and he squirms a little under the scrutiny.

“So you and Dean seem to be getting on like a house on fire,” he remarks

“If this is going to turn into one of those ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ talks, please rest assured that Sam’s already made sure I am adequately threatened.” Bobby snorts.

“No, it’s not one of those talks. I’ve no doubt Sam’s already taken care of that. Idjit’s just as protective of his brother as Dean is of him.”

“I’ve noticed. It’s not surprising, growing up as they have.”

“I’ve known them a long time,” Bobby says. He puts his glass of whiskey, mostly drunk, on the table, bats it between his palms. “Was an old friend of their daddy’s.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I want to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Castiel replies, confused, brow furrowing.

“Dean likes you. A lot. So at some point, and soon, he’s going to run.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not that surprising, all things considered,” Bobby continues. He drains his glass of the last of the whiskey and pours himself another portion. “Reckon he feels like if he leaves you before you have a chance to leave him, it’ll hurt less.”

“That’s absurd,” Castiel protests. “I’m not going to leave him. I don’t want to leave him.”

“So don’t let him. Chase after him. Hunt him down to the ends of the earth until he sees sense,” Bobby says, his tone solemn and serious, his eyes hard.

“I...I can’t do that.” He pushes away from the table then, busies himself getting dinner out of the oven. He places the hot plate on the counter before leaning against it, still wearing the oven mitts. “I will stay with Dean for as long as he wants me to. But by no means will I force him to be in my presence. I’m not going to chase him or hunt him or… _trap_ him into being with me. Honestly, I think that would be worse than if he ran. I would rather he be with me because he wants to than out of some sort feeling of obligation. He is a free agent and I will not see him caged, not for the likes of me.”

Having said his piece, Castiel returns to the table, dinner in hand. He and Bobby eat in silence, but when he glances up, just the once, he swears he can see respect reflecting back at him from Bobby’s eyes.

 

 


	9. Chapter 8

It’s early morning when Castiel can first see it—the tiny little pinpricks on the horizon but that can mean one thing. Eden is close. He sits up straighter in the passenger seat, leaning closer to the windshield, as if that will make it easier to see.

“Dean,” he says, pointing in front of them. The shapes begin to grown taller with each mile they cover, buildings emerging from almost nowhere.They’ve been closing in on the city limits for hours now, having driven through the night, but the landscape around them has been as flat and uninteresting as one of the sermons he’d listened to every Sunday as a child.

“I know.” Dean pulls over to the side of the road, the Impala crawling to a smooth stop. In the backseat, Sam’s snoring softly, his jacket thrown over him as a makeshift blanket and Castiel knows that Dean doesn’t want to wake him. They clamber out of the car as quiet a possible. Leaning against the front bumper, Dean loops his arm around Castiel’s shoulder, bringing him in to stand as close as possible next to him.

“Well would you look at that,” he says.

“We made it,” Castiel replies with a small grin.

“We did, didn’t we?” Dean kisses his cheek. “You ready for the next part?”

With Dean at his side, he feels like he can do anything.

The rest of the time before they actually enter the city goes by simultaneously too slow and too fast. Sam wakes up about half an hour after they’ve restarted their journey and, once he gets a look at the horizon, his excitement is palpable.

They have to slow down immensely once they pass the borders of the capital. The open road where Dean can drive as fast as he wants, opportunity stretching forever out in front of them, has come to an end. They’re hemmed in by tiny and twisty streets, packed to the brim with other cars and a mass of city dwellers. Castiel is sure he’s never seen so many people in one place. With a big vehicle like the Impala, it takes a little maneuvering to get to their temporary destination. Truthfully, Castiel has never asked where they would be staying once they arrived. He has enough trust in Dean that it never occurred to him. So he’s more than a little surprised when they pull up in front of a diner with big open windows along the front. The sign above the door says _Benny’s_ in curling, yellow script, and he can see from the car that it’s mostly full, each table taken up by customers.

It’s a place that both the Winchesters are familiar with though, as they stroll in confidently and at ease, the bell above the door tinkling as they cross the threshold. The man behind the counter looks up as he hears it and, once he lays eyes on the brothers, he grins.

“Where the hell you been, brother? I’ve been expecting you for over a week now,” he says in a light southern drawl.

“Aww, Benny, don’t tell me you were worried,” Dean replies. They shake hands and hug, a custom that Castiel has never quite gotten a hang of. It seems both too casual and too intimate for any of the acquaintances that he has. “We got held up for a bit, some problems on the road. But we’re here now.”

“Glad you boys got in safe, then.”

“You remember Sam,” Dean prompts, placing his hand on Sam’s back and pushing him slightly forward. Sam shakes Dean off before giving Benny a tight smile. Castiel is a little bit surprised by the young man’s chilly greeting as Sam’s always been so warm with everyone they’ve met, even complete strangers. And with how exuberantly Dean had embraced the man, he thought for sure that Sam would be a minute away at launching himself at the burly stranger in front of them. “And this is Cas. Or should I say James?”

“Cas is fine,” he interjects, presenting his hand to shake. He may have his suspicions but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to be called James. He may never be.

“Benny.” The other man takes his hand, gives it a firm shake.

“Benny’s got some room over the diner here where we can crash,” Dean explains.

“That’s rather nice of him,” Castiel replies. Dean’s entirely at ease with the man, but Sam’s still tense. He’s not sure whose lead he should follow, so he ends up sounding politely uninterested.

“I just moved in with my girlfriend a couple months back,” Benny elaborates, as he ducks back behind the counter. He picks up the coffee pot and begins to refill the cups of the customers sitting at the bar. “She didn’t fancy living above the diner so I moved digs to make her happy. Still haven’t managed to rent out the apartment above the store, though. So it’s free for you guys to use while you’re here. I don’t mind doing Dean a favor.” That, more than anything, endears him to Castiel.

“Hey uh, any chance we can get some grub before we settle in?” Dean asks, sheepish. “We kinda drove straight through breakfast.” Benny laughs.

“Have a seat anywhere you’d like. I’ll send someone over to you in a bit.” They shuffle over to an empty booth in the back, Dean sliding in on one side, Castiel and Sam on the other.

“Benny’s an old friend,” Dean expands as someone drops three menus on the table for them to peruse. Sam snorts, softly next to him and Castiel glances at him out of the corner of his eye, curious. But Sam doesn’t do or say anything else; merely looks at the menu. If Dean heard Sam’s disgruntlement, he doesn’t let on.

“You have a lot of friends,” Castiel remarks, because really, the entire journey has been stop after stop of people who know and like the Winchesters, always willing to lend them a hand. It’s not surprising, really, when he thinks about it. Dean is charming and good to the core, even if he is a little morally misguided. People like Ellen and Bobby, Charlie and Benny stand no chance when it comes to being brought into Dean’s orbit.

“What can I say, I’m a friendly guy,” Dean retorts.

They eat their lunch in quiet conversation, although Sam’s mood seems to worsen when Benny comes over to check on them. Dean’s either oblivious to it or purposefully ignoring it. After they’re done, they head back out to the car and gather up their stuff, before climbing the stairs on the side entrance to the apartment above.

The apartment is small but it doesn’t feel cramped. There’s one bedroom that faces the street, the chatter from the people below filtering up softly through the window. There’s a sitting room with a sofa that Castiel hopes pulls out. It won’t be fair to any of them to have to sleep on the small piece of furniture. Between the two rooms is the bathroom and opposite that, a small kitchen. It’s a homey little place and Castiel can’t help but wonder why Benny’s had a hard time finding a tenant for it.

Dean heads straight for the bedroom, calling out over his shoulder as he goes, “You okay with the couch, Sam?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he replies distractedly, already moving to the phone as Dean deposits their luggage in the other room. “I’m gonna give Charlie a call--I told her I’d let her know when we got into the city.”

“Cool, dude. I’m gonna take a nap,” he shouts. “Hey Cas, you coming?”

“Not yet.” Castiel follows Dean into the bedroom so they don’t have to yell. He’s sure that the nap is really a euphemism for sex, but Castiel really would appreciate an opportunity to speak with Sam alone. As attached at the hip he and Dean are these days, he has to take advantage of the opportunity when he sees it. Besides, Dean does need the rest. “I’m gonna stretch my legs a bit.”

“Alright. I’ll catch you later then.”

“Sleep well,” Castiel bids him goodbye, watching Dean flop onto the bed and snuggle down into the mattress.

“Don’t stay away too long,” Dean says with a yawn, his eyes already closed. “We’re gonna head out after dinner, get you some new duds.”

“What’s wrong with the clothes I have?”

“You can’t go meeting a princess looking like a country bumpkin, Cas. Just trust me on this.” There’s no arguing with him, Castiel knows, so he leaves him to his sleep and exits the room. Sam’s getting off the phone just as Castiel finishes closing the door behind him.

“Yeah, thanks Charlie, I appreciate it,” he says softly, before the receiver goes back into the cradle with a click.

“Charlie’s good?” he inquires, leaning down to tie his shoes.

“Yeah,” Sam responds. “Dorothy just got back from a job and they’re gonna go out celebrating. But she uh, had a chance to look into that maker’s mark on your locket before that happened. She gave me an address. Here. In Eden.”

Castiel blanches. “Here? You’re sure?"

Sam nods. “Yeah. It’s on the other side of town, where the neighborhood’s a bit nicer.”

“Well then,” Castiel says, standing upright once more. “Fancy a walk, Sam?”

* * *

“So which way are we headed?” Castiel asks after Sam’s finished getting directions from a kind, old lady standing on the corner, selling flowers. She must have a soft spot for Sam’s baby face because she presses a small bouquet of violets into his hand, telling him to give it to his sweetheart. Sam blushes and stutters out his thanks before he trips in his haste to get back to Castiel.

“This way,” Sam says, taking off with purposeful strides. “She said to go three streets up, then make a left. It’s on the corner of 51st and Hawthorn St.” Castiel glances up at the sign at the cross street with reads 30th and Pine.

“Oh because that’s not a long walk at all,” he grumbles.

“I told you it was on the other side of town,” Sam sighs, exasperated, before he presses the flowers into Castiel’s grip. “Here, take those. You can give that to Dean when we get back.”

Castiel snorts. “Somehow I don’t think your brother will like it if I gift him with flowers."

“Cas, he likes pretty much everything you do. You practically walk on water where he’s concerned.” Castiel can’t help but frown at the statement.

“I’m not...I’m not perfect, Sam.”

“I know that, and you know that, but it’s gonna take Dean a little bit of time to catch up with the rest of us.” Sam pats his arm awkwardly. “Don’t worry, it’ll pass. You guys just need to get past the honeymoon phase first. Then he’ll be annoyed about you leaving your shoes in the middle of the floor or leaving the cabinet doors open or something stupid like that.”

“I don’t want to be put on a pedestal.”

“Don’t tell me that, tell _Dean_ ,” Sam says with a sharp shrug.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to put you in the middle,” Castiel says, sheepish. He clears his throat, changes the subject. “You don’t like Benny,”

“Not really, no.”

“Are you going to expand on that or am I going to have to guess?” Sam sighs.

“You remember that story Charlie told about how we met?”

“Dorothy caught your brother hustling pool,” Castiel recalls.

“Yeah, but the second part. When he called her up a year later, after he got in trouble.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, solemnly. “I remember.”

“Well, Benny is part of that trouble,” Sam admits. “Dean met him in a bar--some place in the middle of nowhere called Purgatory. Tried to scam him at pool but Benny caught on real quick. Instead of being mad, he said he could use a guy like Dean.

“And well. I’m not going to lie—there were some definite perks to joining up with Benny and his gang. For the first time in a long long time, we weren’t worried about where our next meal was going to come from. We didn’t have to live in the car. Dean got attached and I got to stick around in a school for longer than a month or two. Even managed to take my entrance exam for the university.”

“I take it things weren’t sunshine and roses all the time, though,” Castiel says. Sam laughs mirthlessly.

“Yeah, not at the end. At first it was just small shit you know, scamming unsuspecting people out of some cash, the occasional pickpocketing. It wasn’t really ideal, but mostly harmless. But the jobs kept getting bigger and bigger, until they were planning to knock over a bank.”

“This was Benny’s idea?” Sam shakes his head.

“No. Benny wasn’t the leader of the gang, just some muscle.”

“So they got caught.”

“Yeah. No one got hurt or anything but one of the tellers tripped the alarm the minute they walked in the door. Police were there before they even got into the vault. Dean and Benny were still tying up hostages.”

“So Dean uses his phone call to call Dorothy, ask her to take care of you,” Castiel infers.

“I don’t know what we would have done without her and Charlie,” Sam admits. “Without them, we definitely would have been separated. Dean probably would have gone to jail. I don’t know what would have happened to me. They made sure that I still had my big brother and Benny, well. I know it’s not his _fault_ , not really.”

“Dean makes his own choices.”

“Yeah. But I can’t help but think that, if it hadn’t been for Benny, I wouldn’t have almost lost him in the first place.”

“And what happened to Benny?”

Sam shrugs. “He took a deal. Gave up everything he knew about the gang leader in exchange for a suspended sentence. He and Dean kept in touch afterwards, that’s how Dean knew he had his own diner now, turned over a new leaf.”

“But you don’t trust him.”

“No,” Sam’s voice is firm, absolute. He picks up his pace and Castiel hangs back, lets him get some space.

* * *

Godson’s Jewelers doesn’t seem like much, certainly not like a place that the royal family would give its patronage to. It’s a small shop, almost hidden by the deli next door, and while it’s certainly in what could be called a nice part of town, it’s nowhere near what anyone would consider high end. They step inside, carefully wiping their feet on the mat, not wanting to track in the grit and grime of the city with them.

There’s a woman standing behind the glass display cases on the other end of the room, her blonde hair falling in waves that frame her face. With the way the lights from the cases illuminate her from below, it almost looks like she has a halo. She gives them a cautious smile as they approach, puts down the rings she’s polishing. The name tag attached to her pressed, white blouse says ‘Muriel’.

“Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?” She asks.

“Ah, yes,” Castiel says, then has to clear his throat. He’s surprisingly nervous and his hands shake as he goes to unclasp the locket from around his neck and present it to her. “I believe that this was made here. I was hoping you could tell me who bought it.”

Muriel takes the locket from his hand gingerly, brings it up close to her face to examine it. She frowns as she flips it over in her hand, noting the small wing mark on the back. She undoes the clasp and peers inside it, noting the careful etching into the gold.

“Well, this is definitely from here—that is our mark, after all. But I know that I didn’t make it. How old did you say this was?” She asks, handing it back to him.

“I, uh, don’t really know. At least ten years, if not longer. There was an...incident, when I was younger and I lost my memories. This is the only thing I had besides the clothes on my back when I was found.” Muriel hums, thoughtful, before she crouches down behind the cash register and brings forth an old, beat up ledger. She places it on the case in front of them and a cloud of dust floats up into the air from the impact.

“Well, then it was probably made by my mother. It doesn’t look tarnished enough to be made by my grandparents. Besides, it’s definitely not their style. The engraving, the precise etching, that was something my mother mastered.” She flips through the pages of the ledger, searching for any sign of the locket on the pages, dragging her finger down each of the descriptive columns. “We keep records of all the transactions we’ve made. Names, dates, that kind of thing. My mother always said that it was helpful, made it easier to remember customers. People like to think that they’re special, that they made an impact. It makes them come back.”

Castiel watches her, tense with hope that he’ll finally have some answers. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. He appreciates the thought but if anything, it only makes his muscles lock up more.

Finally, her finger pauses on an entry, one that dates the purchase of the locket to sixteen years prior. Muriel pulls the book closer to her, reads and rereads the description of the transaction.

“Oh,” she says, her brow furrowed in surprise. She glances up at Castiel, seems to take him in from head to toe. “You really have no recollection of how this piece wound up in your hands?”

Castiel certainly isn’t going to tell her that he dreamt it was given to him by his sister, who also happens to be the Princess Regent. Nor that it was given to her by their mother, the Queen. Because while he feels it in his very core that _that actually happened_ , that he’s not making things up, it’s another thing entirely to confide that to a stranger. Especially not when he hasn’t even told those much closer to him.

So he shakes his head, somber.

“Cas doesn’t remember _anything_ ,” Sam chimes in. “He’s just trying to find his family.”

“Well,” Muriel says, her mouth twisted into a wry frown. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be there. Says here that the locket was purchased by an agent of the crown. At the Queen’s request.”

Every time he ever thought about what it would feel like to finally _know_ something about what happened to his family, he imagined he’d be elated, joyful. Instead, it’s like a punch to the gut, an overwhelming cascade of emotion that leaves him breathless.

“The Queen?” Sam says. “You’re sure?” Muriel nods.

“Positive. My mother’s skill was well known in the city. It wasn’t surprising when we were commissioned by the nobility. We did very well for ourselves, back then. Now though...well, that kind of opulence is frowned upon.” She gestures to the simpler designs in the display cases. “Although I suppose that’s a good thing for me, as I don’t have even half of my mother’s talent.”

“Thank you, Muriel,” Castiel finally says, his voice surprisingly level, but distant. Sam throws him a concerned look. “I appreciate you taking the time to look for me.” He nods once at her and turns to leave, stalking out of the store stiffly. He’s halfway out the door when Muriel calls out to them and he stops out of politeness.

“Best of luck to you,” she tells him, her voice earnest and sincere. “ _Your highness_.” Castiel inhales sharply through his nose and leaves.

He and Sam walk two blocks in silence before he stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. The people around them get annoyed, grumble, but they pass by a moment later, completely ignoring them.

“Are you okay, Cas?”

“What if...what if I told you that there’s a very good possibility that I actually am the lost prince?”

Sam doesn’t say anything at first. “Cas, do you remember something?” he asks slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to scare Castiel off. Castiel laughs.

“Yes,” he croaks. “Many things. I remember the smell of the perfume the queen wore and the King reading us bedtime stories. I remember one of the cooks being fond of me, giving me an extra sweet or two on the sly. I remember learning to skip rocks, that my bodyguard is the one who taught me. I know things, details that aren’t even in the files Charlie gave us. I remember what the palace looked like, I’ve known it all along. That first day, when we first met, I went there. And each of the rooms, regardless of how burned out and looted it was, I knew exactly what it was for, exactly what it _should_ look like. I know that it was my sister who gave me this locket, my sister the _princess_ , and that she did it because I was upset she was leaving. It was to comfort me, as our mother had given it to comfort her.

“I’ve been telling myself over and over that it’s all in my head, that these things don’t actually happen. But with each memory, each little piece of evidence that comes to light, I would be a fool not to see the obvious and believe it.”

“So...you’re the prince?” Sam confirms. “You’re actually Prince James?”

“You can’t—you can’t tell Dean,” he pleads.

“Cas,” Sam says, exasperated.

“I’m not trying to keep it a secret, I swear. I didn’t say anything before now because I had doubts. But this is something that needs to come from me. _I_ need to tell him.”

“I won’t say anything,” Sam concedes after a moment, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But he needs to know, Cas. You need to tell him.” The ‘or I will’ goes unsaid.

* * *

 When they get back to Benny’s, Dean’s waiting for them in the sitting room, feet kicked up on the coffee table.

“You two have fun?” he asks before they’re even completely in the door. Sam rolls his eyes.

“We just went for a walk, Dean. Explored the city a little bit. We even stopped by the university so I could get a feel for it.”

“Yeah, well, you guys took your sweet time. We gotta get moving if we’re gonna get Cas some new duds before the shops close.”

“Let me just grab a shower, okay?” Sam says, stalking off to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The sound of the pipes creaking and the water starting up follows shortly after.

Alone now, Dean turns his gaze to Castiel, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He’s still holding the small bunch of flowers. They’ve wilted a little, along the journey to the jeweler’s and back, but they’re not unsalvageable. Of course, it’s the first thing that Dean hones in on.

“Dude, did you get me flowers?” He smiles slowly and Castiel can’t help but grimace slightly. He brings his other hand up, rubs his neck nervously.

“Not...really?” He tries to explain. “This woman was selling them on the street and she took a liking to Sam. He didn’t really have a use for them, so he gave them to me to give to you. As a joke. I wasn’t actually going to do it but uh--”

“That’s a total lie and you know it,” Dean says, his grin growing wider as he rises from the couch. “You’re such a sap.”

“You can ask Sam,” Castiel insists. “I really wasn’t going to give them to you. I thought you’d laugh at me.”

“Oh I’m totally laughing at you,” Dean says. He puts one hand on Castiel’s cheek, cradles his face. “It’s adorable.” He pries the violets out of Castiel’s hand and gives him a kiss.

“It doesn’t seem that way to me. Seems like you actually like them.” Dean shrugs.

“Maybe I do.” He walks to the kitchen, fills a glass with water to act as a makeshift vase. He puts the flowers in it with great care, fingers brushing over the petals. When he glances back at Castiel, there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “You wanna make out until Sammy’s done?”

And Castiel knows that he should tell Dean. That this would be the perfect time, when he’s already happy and giddy and pleased, to sit him down and tell him everything: about the locket and his memories and the fact that he really is royalty after all. But, God help him, he’s selfish.

So he doesn’t say anything. Not now.

 _Later_ , he tells himself as he sinks down on the couch. Later, he thinks again when his mouth connects with Dean’s, hands already seeking the soft flesh of his belly.

 _Later_.

 

 


	10. Chapter 9

“You’re going to be fine, Cas,” Dean says for the third time as he smooths down his collar, straightens his tie. Their shopping excursion a few days ago had been quite...interesting. Honestly, he hadn’t ever thought that Dean could be that opinionated about _clothes_ of all things. It had taken them two hours before they found something that Dean deemed acceptable.

He’s wearing it now—a light gray suit with a thin, white pinstripe. He’s opted for just the waistcoat tonight, leaving the jacket in the closet, and paired it with a stark white button down shirt and a red tie. He got new shoes too, was forced to get them, and while shiny and black, they are also new and stiff, not altogether comfortable. They pinch his toes.

It’s a strange thing to look in the mirror and both recognize and not recognize the person staring back at you. He’s never dressed this nicely before, never really had occasion to. Growing up he survived on hand me downs and donations and as an adult, what meager belongings he’d managed to gather for himself consisted of what he could find lying around. He’s never had all that much money and what he did, he wasn’t going to spend on clothes.

But here, everything fits. The suit is cut sharp and tight across his chest, the buttons fastened on the vest so closely that he feels like if he takes too big a breath, he’ll send one flying. The pants follow the curve of his leg, long and lean, and they fit at the waist so well he really doesn’t need a belt, let alone secure it to the last hole to keep his pants from falling down. Even his hair, always unruly and mussed up, has been tamed, gelled down and parted to the side, in an effort to make him look as prince-like as possible.

He looks every bit the part of Prince James, clean shaven, well groomed, and properly dressed. It’s like putting on a new skin overtop of his own and the image is as off-putting in real life as it is in his head.

Eventually, Castiel has enough and pushes Dean’s hands away, tired of the constant fussing that he’s been subjected to in the past hour.

“I _know_ , Dean. I’m not the one that’s nervous here, you are.”

“I just...we got a lot riding on this. I want it to go well.”

“It will,” Castiel says, confident. After all, it can’t go wrong at all, can it? He’s the prince. He has the proof, resting right against his heart. Where it once gave him comfort, the locket has done nothing but weigh him down for the past few days, a constant reminder of the secret he’s keeping. He still hasn’t found a chance to tell Dean; every time he starts to, he looks him in the eyes and then he just can’t. He’ll be hurt, especially as he’s waited so long to say _anything_ , waited so long that he’s the last to know. And he can’t hurt Dean, not willingly, not when he has another choice.

Avoidance isn’t exactly a great option and it can only last so long—Dean will find out the truth, one way or another—but it’s working out for now. And with the deadline looming over his head, a ticking countdown clock that’s really only a matter of hours, he figures there’s no harm in waiting just a little bit longer. What would be the point of saying something now, when he can relish the minuscule amount of time they have left?

“Are we all set?” Sam asks, leaning against the bedroom door. “We’re going to be late, if we don’t get going.”

“It’ll be fine, Sam. It’s just Jody.”

“Jody, who’s doing us a favor, and who you really don’t want to piss off. Don’t be a dick, Dean.”

“Alright,” Dean concedes, picking up his leather jacket and shrugging it over his shoulders. “We’re ready, okay?”

They climb into the car, Castiel getting shotgun, and head out, driving to the top of Golden Apple Way, where the royal palace stands.

It’s not as impressive as Castiel might have thought. Clearly, there’s been some work done on the facade in the past few years, stripping away the ornamental decadence that had been on display before the revolution. What greets him now is a stately home of red brick and a door painted black, with a bronze knocker that sits behind a wrought iron fence, which opens automatically as they pull up. There are a lot of windows ranging in size, from smaller ones on the upper floors to the big, almost extravagant arched ones on either side of the door. Each one is covered carefully in gauzy white curtains that can be seen from the street and what are no doubt, heavier darker drapes behind that, obscured beyond the mix of glass and fabric.

They don’t have a chance to ring the bell; the door opens almost immediately after Dean’s put the car in park. A short Asian woman with bobbed hair greets them with a nod.

“Hi,” Dean says with what Castiel is sure is meant to be a charming grin, but comes across more as a nervous grimace than anything else. “We, uh. We have a meeting with Jody.”

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” the woman says with a knowledgeable air. “Ms. Mills has been expecting you.” She steps aside, welcomes them coolly into the foyer.

“Thanks, uh,” Sam says, faltering when he realizes he doesn’t know her name.

“Linda Tran, Mr. Winchester.” She curtseys curtly, as if she cannot believe she has to perform such a sign of respect to a couple of street urchins. Sam and Dean look just as discomforted by the action. “I’m the head of the house for her Highness. Ms. Mills will meet you in the drawing room.” She turns on her heels and the three of them follow without comment. Castiel grabs hold of Dean’s hand, twines their fingers together, and squeezes tight. The small measure of comfort does little to ease Dean’s tense shoulders, but he does relax slightly.

Linda excuses herself to bring them some tea the moment their settled into the small, but warm room. There is a sofa along the wall with a matching set of armchairs in a soft, pastel floral fabric, that sit near the fireplace. A long, low table of dark wood lies between them, the legs carved ornately with leaves and flowers to match.

With a sigh, Dean flops down on the sofa, wipes his hand over his face.

“I didn’t think I’d be this nervous,” he croaks. “Sammy, why aren’t you as much of a wreck as I am?” Sam shrugs.

“Cas has got this. We all know every bit of information in that file. We’ll be fine.”

“But what if--” Castiel cuts him off with a press of his finger to his lips.

“Not a word, Dean. You’ve covered all your bases. I even know how to waltz half decently, should Ms. Mills require a practical demonstration of my skills.” Dean can’t help but smile a little bit at that, no doubt remembering their lessons. Castiel grabs hold of both his hands holds and rubs his thumbs soothingly over Dean’s knuckles. “There’s no need to worry.”

Linda returns then, placing the tray of tea of the table.

“Ms. Mills will be with you shortly. Please, help yourself,” she gestures to the tray. She curtseys again, just as stiff and sarcastic as before, and leaves them to be. Castiel drops Dean’s hands and goes over to make him a cup of tea.

“Maybe this will help calm you down,” he muses, handing the delicate china over to Dean.

“I don’t like tea,” he protests.

“Drink it anyways,” Castiel insists, his voice brooking no arguments. Dean purses his lips but wraps his hands around the cup, brings the warm liquid to his lips.

The door opens once more and a woman with short, cropped hair, wearing a dark pant suit strides into the room.

“Sam, Dean,” she greets with a smile and Sam and Dean are up off the couch in a second. She gives each of them a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see both of you. Gosh, the last time I laid eyes on you two, you were about this tall, Sam.” She indicates a height about equal to the top of her waist.

“I know,” Dean replies, confident facade firmly in place now that there’s a familiar face. “It’s hard to believe he was ever that small, considering how gargantuan he is now.” He ruffles Sam’s hair playfully and Sam pushes him away. They tussle like brothers for a few moments before Jody places a hand on each of their shoulders, pushes them apart.

“Well I see now that, while both of you may have gotten bigger, neither of you have gotten more mature.”

“They’re brothers,” Castiel interjects. “It’s my understanding that they’ll be bickering until the end of their days.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she laughs, stepping forward to greet him. “Well, I know these two rascals, but you’re a new face.”

“I get that a lot, actually,” Castiel replies, thinking of the trail of old friends he’s been introduced to by the Winchesters.

“Jody this is C—” Dean catches himself at the last second and clears his throat. “Sorry. This is James. _Prince_ James.” Immediately the friendliness on Jody’s face disappears, replaced with a solemn seriousness and a touch of exasperation.

“Do you know how many impostors I’ve had come through my door, Dean? Sam?” She says, stern and unimpressed. “Each and every one of them is sitting in prison, serving ten years for fraud. Now if you want, we can just forget this now, no harm, no foul. But the minute me and your friend here sit down, you know that I can’t let this go. It won’t matter that I’ve known you since you were children.”

“We know, Jody,” Sam says. “You’re just doing your job.”

“And I can assure you, ma’am, there’s no need for such threats,” Castiel says, straightening his shoulders, drawing up to his full height. “I am the man you seek.” But instead of being intimidated or impressed, Jody sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you right off the bat.” She motions towards the two armchairs by the fire. “Please, have a seat.”

Castiel sits across from her and pours himself a cup of tea while she settles. He offers a cup to Jody but she shakes her head curtly.

“No thank you. I suppose we should just get right down to it.”

“That would be best,” Castiel agrees.

“Name?”

“James Emmanuel III,” Castiel replies, not missing a beat. Jody nods.

“And your birthday?”

“September 18th,” Castiel takes a sip of his tea. “And before you ask, I was born at the Summer Palace, outside of Lawrence.” She’s taking it easy on him—these are all questions one can find the answer to in any library in the kingdom.

“And your family?” Jody presses.

“There is my sister, of course,” Castiel says, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Regent, Hannah Caroline I. My father was King Charles IV. And my mother was Queen Consort, Rebecca.” It’s been three questions and Castiel is already sick of the charade. “You can question me until the sun sets, if you’d like, but I feel like that would be tedious for both of us. I’d like to be honest with you.”

“Oh?” Jody asks, curious.

“Up until recently, I have been living at an orphanage outside Lawrence called St. Ambrose’s,” he says. From behind them on the couch, he hears Dean groan, but he doesn’t dare look back at him. “The nuns who cared for me found me on the side of the road, beaten and bleeding, the day after the coup, with no memory of who I was or how I had gotten there. No one ever came looking for me. For the past ten years I’ve been living as a man named Castiel, first an orphan, then a seminary student. The only clue I’ve ever had about my past is this.” He loosens his tie so that he can pull forth the locket nestled under his clothes. He undoes the clasp and hands it over to Jody so she can have a better look.

“The locket was given to me by my sister, Princess Hannah. I have only recently begun to regain my memories of life before the coup and while there are still plenty of blank spots, I remember when she gave that to me, clear as day. It was one of the first things I remembered.” He swallows, takes a deep breath to prepare himself before he continues. Jody doesn’t look like she disbelieves him, but she’s not looking entirely convinced either. She’s studying the locket now, her lips pursed in concentration as she listens to the rest of his story.

“At the age of sixteen, the councillors of the court advised my father that it was time for Hannah to be sent to Eden to make her official debut into society and that, from there, a match would be made for her with a suitable young man, most likely of minor royalty or the aristocracy. I was ten and rather upset at losing my sister and friend. After the announcement was made that she would be leaving, I ran off to the pond at the edge of the property, where she found me a short time later.

“She gave me that locket to hold in trust, until I was old enough to join her in Eden and we could reunite, although having the wisdom of age now, I feel like it was more of a keepsake to remember her by, to comfort me in my loneliness. Our mother had given it to her when she was ill, likely for the same purpose. Nobody else witnessed this exchange and as a reticent child with very few companions, I doubt that I had cause to tell anyone about it.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“If there was someone else out there who knew about it, who had this locket, don’t you think they would have come forward already? Ten years is a long time to wait.” He takes the locket back from her, cradles it in his hands gently as he points to the maker’s mark on the back. “I spoke to the jeweler who did this. Well, the daughter of the jeweler. She had records, descriptions of pretty much all their sales and names to go with them. She confirmed that it was the queen who commissioned this piece. They’re right here in Eden, if you would like to talk to her yourself. Her name is Muriel.”

Jody shakes her head. “There’s no real way to confirm any of this. I’m sorry.”

“But the coincidences are too many to just write it off,” Castiel insists. “Go, speak with the Princess. She will tell you the same story about this locket that I just did.”

“Alright,” she concedes, pushing herself up from the armchair. Castiel hands her the locket back with a nod. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Castiel wants to tell her to be careful, to make sure that she doesn’t drop it or lose it, even though it’s only going to be gone for a short while. The locket means a lot to him, was the only connection he had to his past for years, and as he watches it walk away from him, he can only hope that, when it returns, that connection will become stronger.

Because when she comes back, he hopes, oh god how he hopes, she will be bringing his family back to him.

The door shuts behind her with a soft click and immediately, it’s like Castiel’s strings are cut. He exhales and slumps in the armchair, burying his face in his hands. It’s now that the nerves start to bubble in his stomach. What if, even after all that, the princess doesn’t believe him? What if it was all just a dream, just something that he made up inside his head?

“Cas?” Dean asks from beside him and he jumps, startled, not sure when the other man moved from his seat on the sofa. He reaches out for him, wanting the comfort of his touch, but Dean shies away from the movement. Frowning, he looks up at Dean, finally making eye contact. His face is thunderous, eyes electric with anger. “Cas, what the _fuck_ was that?”

Castiel licks his lips and swallows thickly.

“Dean, I meant to tell you. Before now, that is.”

“Oh you _meant_ to tell me? Right, that totally excuses the fact that instead of giving me a heads up that the plan’s changed, you just storm ahead. Jesus, Cas, if this doesn’t work out, we can all be going to prison!” Castiel’s brow furrows, his eyes squint in confusion.

“I don’t…That’s not…Dean,” he says, taking a deep breath as he gathers his thoughts. “Dean, that wasn’t a lie. I really have had that locket for ages. Ask Sam! He had Charlie help track down the jeweler for me. And I have been regaining my memories. Not all of them, not by a long shot, but enough. Enough to know. I’m…I’m the _prince_ , Dean.” Dean’s lips purse. The anger so visible on his face, unmistakable, before a moment later, it’s shuttered away.

The blank mask is almost more unsettling.

“I wasn’t sure until after I had met with Muriel, seen her records. I didn’t want to say anything before that, didn’t want you to think I was…crazy or get your hopes up or something. Sam and I went that first day we were here, when I brought you flowers.”

“Sam knew?” Dean asks and finally his expression shifts, his lips twisting into some sort of snarl.

“Dean,” Sam calls from the sofa, placating.

“I asked him not to tell you,” Castiel interjects before Dean rounds on his brother, says something he regrets. “I told him that it had to come from me.”

“Oh yeah, springing it on me while we’re at the fuckin’ palace—that’s a grade A move right there.” He wipes one hand down his face, over his jaw, exasperated.

“Dean, this doesn’t change anything,” Castiel pleads.

“It changes _everything_ ,” Dean snaps. “Cas…James…you’re a _prince_!”

“I’m still me, Dean. I’m still Castiel. And my feelings for you have not changed.”

“Did you ever think, even for one minute, that my feelings would?” He laughs then, humorless and bitter. “Of course you did, that’s why you didn’t tell me.”

“Have they?” he asks, both wanting and dreading the answer.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Dean—”

“No, you don’t get to do that, you don’t get to beg. You _lied_ to me. And I am a lot of things Cas, but I am not a liar. Not to you. Never to you. So yes, that does change things. It changes everything.”

The door flies open, interrupting their argument. It’s the princess—Castiel recognizes her from pictures, from the papers, from his own memories. She’s panting slightly, wisps of her perfectly coiffed hair coming undone and falling into her face. She braces herself in the doorway, and she stares directly at Castiel, her gaze unwavering. Clutched in her hand is the locket, her grip so tight that her knuckles are turning white.

“Hannah,” he says and there’s a sudden warmth that bubbles up in his chest, spreads through his limbs until he can feel it in his fingers and his toes. Her expression breaks then, a hopeful smile cautiously making itself known and her eyes welling up with tears as she enters the room. Each step is taken with purposeful determination and she comes to a stop right in front of Castiel.

“This belongs to you?” She asks, bringing the locket up between them. Castiel closes his hands over hers.

“No. It’s yours. I was just holding onto it. Until we met again,” he repeats back the words she had said to him, so long ago now.

“Oh gosh. _Jimmy_. It is you.” She throws her arms around his neck, hugging him close and Castiel grips back just as tightly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry, sister,” he says. “I didn’t mean to stay away so long. I never wanted that.”

“It’s okay.” She pulls away but only an arm’s length, keeping her hands on his shoulders, a reassuring weight pressing down on him. “You came back. That’s all that matters.”

“I couldn’t have done it by myself, not without Sam and Dean,” he says, giving credit where credit is due. He finally looks away from her then, readying to welcome forward his companions. But the room is empty now, just Hannah and him.

The realization steals his breath away. He clutches at his newly found sister, hugs her once more. When the tears come, he tells himself they’re from overwhelming happiness instead of a broken heart.

* * *

Hannah clears her schedule.

“There is nothing that can’t wait until I’ve had a good, long conversation with my brother,” she declares. Linda comes in with another tray, this one with sandwiches and pastries, fruits and vegetables, lemonade and water. Hannah makes a plate for him and pours him something to drink without even asking, the perennial hostess. She moves about the parlor with grace and ease, her presence quiet and subtle, but impossible to ignore.

“I’ll go cancel your appointment with Councilor Metatron, then,” Linda says with a wry smile. Hannah laughs.

“ _Please_.” She turns to Castiel. “He’s an absolute bore, Jimmy. To be honest, I’m always looking for an excuse to reschedule our appointments.” Castiel winces at the nickname.

“Princess—”

“Please, James. You’re family. It’s Hannah, always has been when it’s just been us.”

“If it’s not too much of an imposition then, Hannah, would you mind calling me Castiel?” He asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“Castiel?” She tests out the name on her tongue, frowning a little as she says it.

“It’s just…this is all so very new for me. I have been Castiel for ten years, but I can’t really remember being Jimmy for one.” Hannah forces a smile, rests her hand on his arm comfortingly.

“I understand. I think. You will always be my brother, whether your name is James or Castiel or…or…Barnabus. I’m just glad you came back.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And now, if it’s not too much trouble, I would like to hear what my brother has been up to these past ten years.” She sips her lemonade while he gathers his thoughts.

“Well, like I told Jody, I’ve lived at an orphanage. It certainly is not like the luxury you see here, but there was food in my stomach and a roof over my head. The nuns are fond of me. I suppose, if I had wanted it, I could have been adopted. But I was old enough that Mother Naomi took my opinion into account. I always told her I didn’t just want any old family; I wanted my own. But no one ever came looking. After I turned eighteen, I enrolled in the seminary school attached to the orphanage. For the past few years I have been training to be a priest.”

“I did look,” Hannah tells him quietly. “Everyone told me you were dead, that you had to be, even if there wasn’t a body, but I refused to believe them. The problem is that the search got started so late. I couldn’t leave my responsibilities here behind to go out and find you, but oh did I want to. By the time I got the government stable, it had been over a year since you had disappeared and there wasn’t even the smallest clue to where you had gone. I wanted to plaster the walls of the entire kingdom with your face, but the council pointed out that it wouldn’t have been a good idea. There are too many people out there without scruples, willing to take advantage of a worried sister because she’s royalty. So inquiries were made, discreetly of course, but it turned up nothing. I suppose they weren’t as thorough as I had believed them to be.” Castiel reaches out and holds her hand.

“I don’t blame you. I know you were looking. There was always an article in the paper or a report on the radio. But I never thought, not once, that it could be me.” He laughs, a little self deprecating. “Awkward, lonely Castiel? Royalty? I never dared to dream so big.”

“Do you,” she pauses and Castiel lets her work over what she wants to ask. “What happened that night?”

“Ah,” Castiel says and winces. “I…don’t really know. I used to get nightmares about it, I think. But they were definitely dreams, not memories. I doubt that I was chased through the woods by a giant on fire.”

“Perhaps. It’s not that far off from the truth, from what we can tell,” Hannah replies. “I had a whole committee investigate the arson and destruction of the palace. There are a few of the staff that survived, were able to shed some light onto the events. A couple of them saw you escape from the madness, Uriel, your bodyguard, staying with you. Two of them even saw him take you into the woods. It was certainly the safest spot, considering there was a mob of peasants looking for your blood. But no one knows what happened after that.”

“They were starving,” Castiel says, his voice hard. “They were starving and our father was doing nothing to help them.”

“But trying to kill an innocent boy? Burning down the place where he lived? Fifty servants died in that fire. Servants. Not ministers or bureaucrats or royals or the wealthy. Those that died were just like them, poor and hungry and doing what they could to survive. You’re right, the blame isn’t all theirs. Father should have—“ She cuts herself off there and takes a deep, calming breath as she tries to regain her composure. “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. What’s done is done.”

“It’s okay, Hannah.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, her voice adamant. “I love our father, Jim—Castiel. I do. But I have been cleaning up his messes for the past ten years. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t angry. Angry at him, at the councillors, at our citizens who are never satisfied.” She clears her throat.

“I wasn’t in the city when the revolt happened. I was actually at an estate about ten miles away belonging to what should have been my fiancee. He wasn’t going to let me come back here, back to Eden. He said it was too dangerous.”

“Like that was ever going to stop you.”

Hannah gifts him with a small smile. “Father was gone. You had disappeared and even if you hadn’t, you were just a child. Someone needed to step in and take control before chaos descended upon us permanently.”

“So you convinced him to let you leave?”

“God, no.” Hannah laughs. “I put on my cloak and walked out the door. He yelled at me as I did it, said he wouldn’t marry me if I left, but honestly, that was more a relief than anything else.”

“I remember,” Castiel says and he can’t help grinning because it’s actually true. “You didn’t want to get married.”

“I certainly did not. So I set out on foot. There was destruction everywhere, Castiel. I’m thankful I had the forethought to grab my cloak because at least then I could hide my face. Jody found me about three miles outside of the city. She used to work with the police department here, did you know? She knew who I was instantly, even though I had taken care to keep my hood up. She escorted me, personally, to the capitol, kept me safe on the streets of the city where the rioting was the worst. She’s stayed by my side ever since and I am lucky to have her.”

“She’s very protective of you,” he remarks, thinking of how she had stared him down during their brief interrogation.

“I don’t know what I would have done without her,” Hannah admits. “She’s one of the very few people I know with no ulterior motives, no personal agendas. I am glad to call her a friend.”

The clock on the mantle of the fireplace chimes softly, breaking their conversation. Hannah stands. “It’s getting late. Why don’t I show you around and then we can get you settled in, hm?” Castiel nods, assenting.

Arm in arm, they walk from the room.


	11. Chapter 10

Living on Hannah’s estate is strange, to say the least. What looks like a stately, modest building from the outside is a maze of floors and rooms on the inside. The decor is subdued, certainly, but the sophistication and refinery of taste is on full display. Every room feels like moving through a museum—look, but don’t touch—and if Castiel were alone, he is sure that he would get lost, even after an adequate length of time to adjust to his surroundings. Thankfully though, he is never by himself. Hannah assigned him a bodyguard even before his head hit the pillow that first night. Her name is Donna and she’s a chubby blonde woman with a never ending smile.

“Born and raised in Hibbing,” she tells him that first morning over breakfast. “But me and Jodes go way back. We met at a sheriff’s conference, dontcha know? When a position here opened up a few months back, she gave me a call.”

“I’ve been there,” Castiel tells her with a smile. “To Hibbing.”

Her entire face lights up. “Oh ya, it’s a great place.”

“I was just passing through,” he explains. “Our vehicle broke down on the way here so me and Sam, one of my companions, walked into town to call for some help. We had dinner at a restaurant there, can’t remember the name. The food was good, though.” Donna takes the compliment personally.

“You say the nicest things, Your Highness.” Castiel grimaces. He still hasn’t gotten used to people addressing him by title.

“Stop making that face,” Hannah says from the other end of the table, an amused smirk on her face. “Your Highness is how you should be addressed. It’s a sign of respect. Everyone from the cook to the councillors will be saying it and if you keep looking like you sucked on a lemon, someone is going to get offended.”

“I’m not _offended_ ,” he explains. “I’m just not…”

“You didn’t grow up royalty,” Hannah says as he struggles with his words. “Well, you did, but you don’t remember. I understand, Castiel. It’s a big adjustment.”

“Thank you.”

“That being said,” she continues, cutting into half a grapefruit with her spoon. “We need to get you over your aversion to being part of the royal family. There’s going to be a ball at the end of the month, to welcome you back. And quite frankly, I’m not sure you’ll get through it without starting an international incident.”

“Hannah!” He cries. She’s right of course, but that’s not what he’s objecting to. He’s entirely unprepared to face down a full evening of schmoozing and socializing, Dean’s crash course in waltzing aside.

“You’re not getting out of it,” she replies, stern. “I’ve gotten you a tutor, he’ll help.”

“See,” Donna says, clapping him comfortingly on the shoulder. “It could be worse. You could be going in unprepared!”

He buries his face in his hands. He just wanted to find his family. He never thought there’d be such a public circus because of it.

* * *

His tutor is Linda’s fresh-faced son named Kevin who, upon their first meeting, bursts into the room fifteen minutes late, arms full of books and papers. They float to the ground behind him as he stumbles, making his way to the table, wobbly from the weight of it all.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he says when Castiel gets up and tries to help. “You don’t need to do that, Your Highness.” Castiel huffs and ignores him.

“I am so tired of people thinking that, because I am suddenly royalty, I do not possess the ability to be useful or that I’m exempt from being a decent human being.” He wrests four books out of Kevin’s grip before the young man curls his arm protectively around the rest of them, refusing to give up anymore. Castiel places them on the table and then goes about carefully picking up all the dropped loose pages from the floor.

“Now,” Castiel says, having gathered all the detritus left in the wake of his tutor’s entrance, “you must be Mr. Tran.” The boy gives him a cautious smile.

“Just Kevin’s fine. I kinda don’t really feel old enough to be Mister anything.” He can’t be more than eighteen, still slightly baby-faced and wide eyed. His youth reminds him a bit of Sam; truth be told, he misses Sam just as much as his brother and there’s a pang in his heart at the thought of the boy.

“Then you can call me Castiel. Or Cas, if that’s a bit easier.”

“Oh, Your Highness, I couldn’t.”

“Kevin, I have been a prince for less than a week. I don’t really feel qualified enough to be addressed with any sort of title. Surely you can understand.”

Kevin offers him a chagrined smile. “Okay, I see your point. But by the end of this, I promise, you’ll be able to handle anything they throw at you. Even the crown.”

“Oh god, there’s an actual _crown_?” Castiel asks, horrified. Kevin laughs.

“Of course there is. You’ll be expected to wear it at the ball.”

“I don’t want it,” Castiel pleads. “I just wanted a family, a place to belong. I didn’t sign up to rule the whole country.” Kevin winces sympathetically.

“Well, unfortunately, you kinda have to.” He rummages through the papers until he finds what he’s looking for. “See, here. This is the new constitution that was created after the coup. There’s a whole bunch of other things in here that we’ll get to, but you can see in Article Seven, that it outlines all the stipulations for succession in the royal family. And just like before the coup, male heirs take precedence.”

“But Hannah’s been ruling just fine for years. Can’t she just…continue on?”

“Well, she would have a case to do so if she was Queen. But she’s been ruling as Princess Regent ever since she came to power.” Castiel frowns. He’s heard the term, certainly, understands what it means. Each article in the newspaper or report on the radio has always addressed her with the proper title. But it’s not until this moment that he understands what it means for him.

“There have been offers,” Kevin says quietly. “Many of the councillors and representatives would see her put on the throne. She has turned down each and every one of them. This is _your_ birthright, she always said. And she’s never wanted to take it from you. You’re not just a prince, Castiel. You’re the next King.”

Castiel feels the weight of responsibility sink down onto his shoulders at Kevin’s proclamation and he slumps in his chair. He picks up the reproduction of the constitution and stares at it, not really taking in a word of it, before putting it down again.

“This is rather unexpected,” he finally says and Kevin laughs kindly. “They don’t expect me to take over right away, do they?”

“Of course not,” Kevin reassures. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I thought you were supposed to get me ready for a ball?” He questions, eyes narrowing.

“Well, that too,” Kevin says, a little nervous under Castiel’s gaze. “But your coronation won’t be long off.”

“How long do I have?” Kevin shrugs.

“Not really sure. Six months at the earliest, a year at the latest.” Castiel is suddenly starting to understand all these books.

“Six months to a year to learn what I should have had at least eighteen years to,” he remarks, voice strained.  He whistles, soft and low. “I suppose we should get started then.”

They spend two hours going over etiquette and basic diplomatic policy before Castiel demands they take a break. Linda comes in then, brings them some lunch—a hearty stew and fresh baked bread, tea and coffee to help them concentrate. She ruffles Kevin’s hair before she leaves, kisses his temple. Kevin flushes, pushes away her affections, but Castiel can tell from his small smile that he appreciates the gesture.

“Can I ask you a question?” Castiel says as they dig into their meal.

“Shoot,” he says with a shrug.

“How did you come to learn all of this?”

“Well, you know my mom’s the head of the house, but she keeps track of the Princess’ appointments and schedule too. If someone comes in or out through the front door, she knows about it. And she’s not like, an official advisor or anything, but the Princess values her opinion.”

“She keeps this place running like a well oiled machine,” Castiel remarks. “It’s only been a few days, but I’ve noticed.”

“So when I was little, I’d stick close to her. Watched her work a lot. She always made sure that I was studying, learning from what was going on. Once I got old enough, she sent me off to go help out in the council meetings, on both sides.”

“Sounds like you should be ruling the country instead of me. You certainly have more qualifications than I do.”

“You’ll get there too,” Kevin says encouragingly. “Give it time.”

“What if—” He cuts himself off.

“What if you don’t?” Kevin supplies, finishing his thought. Castiel nods.

“Honestly, other than being born in the right family, there is no valid reason why I should be the one to lead. Don’t the people, after all this time, deserve someone who can do them some good?”

“I get what you’re saying,” Kevin placates. “But what makes you think that you can’t be that person? You have the power to do a lot of good, Castiel. Hannah’s tried to keep everything stable the past ten years, and that’s good, we needed that after the chaos of the coup. But don’t you think that after all this time, we’re ready for a little change?”

“And if I abdicated?” Castiel inquires, genuinely curious. “If I chose not to rule?”

“Ruling power would most likely be given to your sister and things will continue on as they have, no better.”

“But no worse,” Castiel counters. “I could screw everything up. Good intentions aside, I could make everything worse.”

“You can think that, if you want. But I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t be so hasty. You’ve only just met me.”

Kevin shrugs. “I don’t have to know someone a long time in order to see that they’re good. You’ll do the right thing, Castiel.”

 _The right thing_. It would help, he thinks, if he had any idea what that is.

* * *

“It’s not going to be a big gathering or anything,” Hannah assured him that morning as he was getting dressed. “But the council needs to meet you, officially.”

Well either his sister is a liar or she has a very different idea of what the definition of a big gathering entails.

There are at least forty people here, mostly men, but he sees a few women among them, grouped together and discussing politics loudly. His sister is nowhere to be seen, but he can hear her laugh, the polite one, that she doesn’t really mean, and he can only assume she’s hidden behind the throng of people.

He’s frozen in the doorway, Donna by his side. She gives his arm a comforting squeeze.

“C’mon, buddy. It’ll be fine.” Donna’s midwestern twang almost echoes through the room as suddenly every eye in the place is on him. Hannah pushes her way to the front to meet him. She holds both his hands and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“Welcome, brother. I’m so glad you could join us.” He wants to remark that he didn’t really have a choice, but knows that would be out of line. He bites his tongue, forces a smile on his face.

“Thank you, sister, for arranging this meeting.” The entire room looks like a pack of hungry sharks and he’s bleeding out into the water. If he could turn around right now, hide out in his room until everyone stopped staring at him, he would.

“Everyone,” she calls out. “Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you so much for coming today. As you’re all aware, my brother, Prince James has been returned to me.”

There’s a mutter of assent before Hannah continues.

“He will be taking the throne sooner rather than later,” she says, her tone hard, as if daring anyone of them to challenge her. “So I thought it prudent to take this time for you all to get acquainted.” She loops her arm around his and together they walk into the sea of people.

“James,” she makes a point of calling him by his birth name and Castiel gets it, he really does. This is official state business and when he’s ruling he will be King James, not King Castiel. He still doesn’t like it, though, still makes him feel like an impostor in his own skin. “This is Councillor Metatron.”

“Ah,” he replies, recognizing the name of the man his sister was desperate to blow off the other day.

“I’ve heard _all_ the details of your return, Your Highness,” he says, his voice obsequious and grating. “I’m fascinated by your journey. It has all the makings of a great story. You don’t know this, but I’ve been working for years at chronicling the lives of the royal family. I was hoping that, if you had just a small amount of time, that you’d have a meeting with me, allow me to interview you for my book.”

“That’s uh, quite flattering,” Castiel replies, looking to Hannah for guidance.

“I’m afraid the Prince’s schedule is quite full these days,” she declines for him and he relaxes a little bit. “He has a lot to catch up on. Perhaps once things settle down. I’ll have Linda call your people—Gadreel, is the latest one, isn’t he?”

With a soft hand on his back, she steers him away before Metatron has a chance to reply.

She introduces him next to a woman named Pamela Barnes and then to one Eleanor Visyak. After that is Victor Henrikson and Zachariah Adler. And beyond that, the names and faces all begin to blur together. He smiles politely and manages to make only slightly stilted small talk. Hannah doesn’t leave his side and, with the ease of experience, she smooths over any of the faux pas he makes and awkward silences that drag out just a slight bit too long.

There is one face, however, that stands out among the pack. Castiel had noticed the man, tall and blonde with a strong jaw and an insincere smile, long before he approaches them; he stood at the edge of the room, watching them with a strange expression on his face, one Castiel couldn’t really pin down.

The man chooses his moment wisely. After a constant stream of visitors, Castiel is sure that he’s spoken to most everyone in the room. As if sensing that he’s overwhelmed, Hannah somehow manages to position him into a chair, allows him to rest.

“Are you doing alright?” She asks. He nods.

“I’m fine, Hannah. A little overwhelmed and I hope that you don’t expect me to remember everyone’s name tomorrow, but you’re right. This has to be done.”

“I’m sorry. This is a bit like throwing you in the deep end.”

“I know how to swim,” he assures her and she smiles at him.

“You always have.”

“Yes, the young prince has always been resilient,” the man interrupts. Hannah tenses but pastes a smile on her face.

“Bartholomew, how nice of you to join us,” she says. “James, this is Councillor Bartholomew.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Castiel says formally. Bartholomew laughs.

“Oh but we’re already acquainted,” he insists with a shark like grin. “I knew you when you were about this tall.” He demonstrates with his hand, tapping the flat edge of it against his knee.

“Bartholomew was one of father’s councillors and one of the very few who has managed to stay on after the restructuring,” Hannah explains.

“It’s been many wonderful years of service to the crown,” he says with a bow. “I am honored to be trusted with such a responsibility.”

“I’m sure,” Hannah comments with a subtle roll of her eyes. Castiel can’t help but feel like he’s missing something.

“And since I have served you and your subjects for such a long time, you’ll forgive me this small impertinence, I’m sure.” He doesn’t stop smiling, but instead of reassuring, instead it feel predatory, threatening. “It’s been years, Your Highness, since your brother disappeared and there wasn’t a single credible lead in the intervening years.”

“What’s your point, Bartholomew?” Hannah’s almost snarls, giving up the pretense of politeness. Castiel’s a little taken aback at the sudden change in mood.

“Well, I, and I’m sure many of my colleagues, cannot help but wonder where, exactly, he came from? Why are you so sure that this man, standing before us, is actually your brother?” Hannah straightens her shoulders, stands tall.

“If anyone has any doubts about James’ return,” she speaks loudly and the whole room hushes to hear her. “Then I would like to remind them of the various safeguards we placed into effect in order to prevent us all from being fooled. My brother has passed them all, and then some. _I_ have no doubts. This man that you see here is Prince James Emmanuel, the third of his name.”

He resists the urge to squirm now that all of the eyes in the room are back on him. Now is not a time to shy away from attention. He must be strong, must be princely. With a deep inhale, he steps forward to stand next to his sister. Side by side, not even Bartholomew can deny their family resemblance.

“Princess Hannah is satisfied with my credentials,” he speaks, “I suggest you be as well.” He takes Hannah’s arm and together, the siblings walk from the room. Donna and Jody trail behind them and close the door after they’ve departed. They use perhaps a bit more force than necessary, as the wood clacks against the door jamb, the slam echoing through the hall in front of them.

Hannah, furious, begins to stalk down the hall.

“The nerve of _that_ man,” she spits, hiking up the hem of her dress so it doesn’t impede her progress towards her rooms. Castiel has to run to keep up. “To suggest that you aren’t who I say you are. That I’m somehow pulling the wool over their eyes or worse! That I’m so gullible that I can’t even tell the difference between a conman and my brother. He’s a bitter little slug, I can’t believe he would say something like that!”

“Hannah, he does bring up a point.”

“And what is that?”

“You don’t know me from Adam. Not really, anyways.”

“I know you’re my brother. The rest of it will come later.”

“Hannah, you should know,” Castiel says, “when I started on this journey, I didn’t remember a thing. I agreed to play a part, agreed to try and swindle you. My intentions were not honest.”

“Castiel,” Hannah responds, exasperated. “Are you trying to con me now?”

“No,” he insists immediately. “No, of course not.”

“Then damn your intentions. Bartholomew would have questioned you, doubted you, regardless of if you had walked into the palace knowing everything. The damn man has been trying to marry me for years, ever since the coup.”

“He’s in love with you?”

Hannah laughs mirthlessly. “He’s in love with power, which I have.”

“And I ruin all his plans,” Castiel realizes.

“Exactly.” They’ve reached Hannah’s living quarters now. She leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Thank you. I know this is all a little bit much. And I wish I could give you more time to get settled. But the longer I wait, the more resistance we’ll face.”

“I understand. Get some rest, I’ll see you in the morning,” Castiel says, taking his leave. Donna walks with him back to his rooms but, thankfully, she leaves him to his thoughts.

He’s still not sure he can do this, still not sure that it’s a good idea. But he wants to try.

Be that as it may, he can’t help but think, as he curls up in the plush bed in the large room that Hannah’s settled him into, that he’d give anything to be back on the open road with Dean and Sam, the rumble of the Impala steady beneath them. The palace is comfortable and great, far better than he’s used to. But he still feels like an invader, a stranger, an out of place guest.

It doesn’t feel like _home_.

* * *

He can’t deny that he’s thought a lot about what he’d do, what he’d say, if he ever saw Dean again. He’s imagined countless scenarios in his head, drafting a script for each one. In some he apologizes; in others he yells. There’s kissing—sometimes frantic, bruising, sometimes soft and sweet, chaste. In a memorable scene, there are even tears.

But none of these scenarios could have prepared him for the actual thing.

To be honest, he never really thought it would happen. Seeing Dean again was a wish, a lost fragment of desire that he’d probably never get over, but knew he could never have. So when he’s heading to the little office to spend another day pouring over manuscripts and peace treaties under the tutelage of Kevin and he sees Dean there, standing in the hallway, looking a little lost, he’s sure he’s dreaming.

Dean sees him though and he freezes. Castiel thought that there’d be surprise, anger, maybe even relief splashed across Dean’s face. Never would he have thought that Dean would look so terrified.

“Dean?”

“Hey Cas,” he responds, shuffling back and forth. He leans forward a bit, puts the duffle bag he’s carrying around on the floor in the space between them. It’s a very familiar bag—it’s the one that Castiel brought with him from the orphanage. In the time he’s spent living at the palace, he’s never thought about trying to get it back. He’d given it up as a lost cause, honestly. “Although I guess you go by James now.”

“No,” Castiel reassures him. “Not really. Only if it’s something official, and even then, people mostly just call me ‘Your Highness’. The rest of the time, though, I’m still Castiel. I prefer it, actually.”

“Cool,” Dean responds after a moment then winces.

“What…” Castiel begins to ask, slow and drawn out, not quite sure how to phrase it without it sounding rude.

“Am I doing here?” Dean supplies and god, when did conversation between the two of them get this stilted? It’s painful. “I, uh. Got a meeting with the Princess. Thought I’d bring your stuff along while I was at it.”

It feels like all the blood in his veins has turned to ice when he realizes a second later what a meeting with the Princess must entail.

The reward money. Of course.

Dean’s not here for him, will never be here for him, and even though he harbored no hopes on the subject, it still hurts to know that he didn’t come back for Castiel. He forces a smile on his face and nods.

“Hannah’s office is right around the corner. Was anyone escorting you?” Dean shrugs.

“Mrs. Tran was walking with me but uh, some mop haired kid popped out of a room, said he needed her help.”

“Kevin,” Castiel supplies. “He’s her son. And my tutor.”

“Oh, well. I guess that makes sense. There was a family resemblance,” he babbles.

“I can take you?” Castiel offers. “It’s not far.”

“I guess.” Castiel can tell he’s reluctant, but he supposes his company certainly beats wandering around aimlessly or waiting for Linda to get back. After all, the sooner he sees Hannah, the sooner he’ll be able to untangle himself from Castiel. For good.

“This way,” he indicates with a nod of his head and then starts off in the opposite direction of where he needs to meet Kevin. “This place is more than a little confusing.”

“Yeah don’t know how you get around without getting lost.” Dean picks up the duffle again and they’re off.

“I don’t,” Castiel admits. “Donna’s had to—more than once—grab hold of my arm and herd me in the right direction.”

“Where’s this Donna today, then?”

“Jody’s taking her coffee break. I sent her to join her—she’s got more than a little obvious crush on the woman.”

“Playing matchmaker, Cas? What other skills have they been teaching you in this joint?” Dean teases and for one blissful second, it’s like all the baggage between them is pushed away. Castiel laughs and Dean grins at him, that same self-satisfied smirk that Castiel has come to love over the past few weeks and enjoyed kissing off his face even more. Castiel can tell the moment that Dean remembers that he’s supposed to be mad at him because his smile falters and, all too quickly, his face shutters to a completely blank expression.

“Dean,” Castiel entreats but Dean shakes his head, shutting him down.

“Leave it, Cas,” he warns but Castiel just crosses his arms and braces himself for the storm.

“No, Dean. I’m not going to leave it.”

“It’s done, Castiel,” Dean insists. “Let it go and move on.”

“You don’t get to decide that, not by yourself,” Castiel shoots back. “Things changed quickly, I get that. And I should have been more honest, more upfront about who I was, once I knew. But we can work it out, if we try.”

“There is no _trying_ Cas,” Dean snaps. “Not anymore.”

“Don’t do this,” Castiel implores and he hates how much his voice wobbles and trips over the words.

“Do what? Break up with you? Hate to break it to you Cas, but I kind of already have.”

“No, you did not _break up with me_ ,” Castiel all but snarls, poking a finger into Dean’s chest. “You ran away. Just like Bobby told me you would. One minute we were arguing, the next you were gone, Dean. And when he warned me, I told him, I told Bobby I wouldn’t chase after you, not if I knew you didn’t want me too. But Dean, I _know_ you do.”

“I’m not running away,” he shouts.

“You _are_. But Dean, you don’t have to. It’s okay.” He grabs hold of Dean’s hand, holds it between both of his own. “Don’t run, please. Stay.” Dean wrenches his hand back, out of Castiel’s hold.

“I don’t know how to make this any clearer,” he says, soft but menacing, each word clear and slow. He looks Castiel right in the eyes, his gaze cool. “We are not in a relationship. We never were. It was just some fun, a good way to blow off some steam on the road. I don’t want to be with you. And you shouldn’t want to be with me, not if you knew what was good for you.”

Castiel cannot help the sharp intake of breath at the words and it echoes in the space between them. He swallows, struggles not to let his eyes flood with tears. He’s not sure how he could have misinterpreted everything that passed between them, but apparently he did.

“Dean,” he whispers one last time.

“Your Highness,” Dean addresses him and he gives a stiff, formal bow. And that’s when he knows, really knows, that it’s over. There’s nothing he can do to change Dean’s mind. With no other options left, Castiel straightens his shoulders then, draws up to his full height, and hopes to salvage what little dignity he has left.

“The princess’ office is another corridor down,” he says. “Take a left when you reach the end of the hallway. Good day, Mr. Winchester.”

He turns and walks back the way they came. He can’t help but feel that he’s leaving his heart, battered and bruised and bleeding, behind with Dean.

But there’s nothing to be done for it now. It’s too far beyond saving.

Castiel puts one foot in front of the other and he doesn’t look back.

 


	12. Chapter 11

In the week after his encounter with Dean, Castiel mopes. He pushes his food around on his plate at every meal, never taking more than a few bites. He stares balefully into space when Kevin is teaching him, not listening to a single thing the boy is saying. He shuffles from room to room, place to place, physically present, but emotionally drained. Hannah’s tried more than once to engage him in conversation, rebuild their relationship, but he just doesn’t have the stomach for it. He retires early and doesn’t sleep.

He hates feeling like this, although this instance is way more acute than the small amount of pining he did when Balthazar ran away. He wants to chase Dean down, beg him to take him back, and simultaneously curse his existence. He’s angry and sad and hurt and he knows that he’s taking it out on those around him, but he can’t stop himself. Hell, he’d snapped at Donna the other morning when she tried to tempt him with a donut after he skipped breakfast. The woman had taken it in stride, but there were an awkward couple of minutes where she quietly apologized for upsetting him, kept her eyes downcast.

After seven days of his capricious and irritable behavior, Hannah must have had enough because she’s waiting for him when he heads to his rooms for another long night of restless sleep. He freezes in the doorway when he sees her, sitting on his bed, with practiced, regal posture.

“Castiel, please,” she implores when he takes a surprised step back. There’s no escaping. He sighs, shoulders slumping, and slinks into the room.

“What do you want, Hannah?” He asks, going over to his dresser and pulling out his pajamas.

“I _want_ for you to tell me what’s been bothering you,” she says.

“I don’t feel like talking about it,” he replies and slips into the bathroom to get changed and brush his teeth. He hopes that his sister will take a hint and leave, but he knows it’s unlikely. Hannah is stubborn, just as much as he is. She’s not going to leave until he’s spilled the entire story to her.

Just like he suspected, Hannah’s still sitting on his bed when he returns. He sits down beside her before flopping backwards, laying across the mattress, too exhausted and wrung out to fight. She places a hand on his knee, soothing.

“I half expected to find you in the garden skipping stones,” she remarks. Castiel huffs.

“That’s absurd. The pond here is too tiny to really attempt that.”

She laughs, then lays down beside him, shifting onto her side so she can see his face. “When you were a child, I knew exactly what to say to cheer you up, to make things better. I’m afraid that, as an adult, I’m not sure that I can do that.”

“I wish this was a problem that could be solved with a hug and a laugh,” he says, “but it’s not.”

“Will you tell me what happened?” He doesn’t say anything at first. He wants to, if only so that he doesn’t have to keep it all bottled up inside him anymore. But finding the words is not easy.

“Dean and I…we were involved,” he finally tells her while idly tracing patterns on the duvet underneath him.

“Oh.” She’s pensive for a moment before she nods. “I suppose that makes a little bit of sense.” Castiel’s eyebrows furrow.

“It does?”

“The way he was acting when he came to collect his reward money. Well. It makes a little more sense now, is all.” Castiel winces.

“I hope you won’t hold that against him. He got a little turned around, looking for your office and, while accompanying him there, we…had words.”

“You…had words,” Hannah repeats with a bit of wry disbelief.

“It turns out that my understanding of our relationship was different than his.” Hannah raises an eyebrow, expectant. “I thought there was one. Turns out I was wrong.”

“Oh Castiel,” she says, her voice all soft sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll be okay.” And it strikes him, for the first time since he left Dean behind, standing in the hallway, that he will be. Time may not heal all wounds, but at the very least, it will take away some of the ache. He will be okay, maybe not right now, but sometime soon. He will survive this.

“I suppose this explains why he wouldn’t take the money,” she remarks off hand, shifting a bit on the bed.

“He didn’t take the money?” Castiel sits up quickly, alarmed.

“I tried to get him to take it,” Hannah replies, sitting up herself. “It’s a PR nightmare if he doesn’t. We went round and round for a bit about it. In the end, we settled on creating a scholarship fund for those in need. His brother will receive one, of course.” It’s a comfort to know that at least Sam’s education won’t be sacrificed on the altar of their…whatever it was they had.

“Did he say why?”

“Said he didn’t deserve it,” Hannah says with a roll of her eyes. “Which is patently ridiculous. He brought my brother back to me, safe and sound. The very least I could do is compensate him for his time.” He’s absolutely puzzled over this change of heart. After their argument, Castiel had thought for sure that Dean would take the money and run as far from Eden, as far from him, as he could.

He’s really not sure what to make of it that Dean didn’t.

* * *

“So this is the Council Garden,” Kevin says as they walk up the momentous amount of stairs toward the stately building, complete with Corinthian columns and a gold plated dome.

“Well golly gee,” Donna says from beside him as they reach the top, staring up at the intricate designs carved into the marble. Castiel thinks that, if he squints, he can see some cherubs among the ivy and the flowers.

“It is rather impressive,” Castiel admits.

“And it houses…?” Kevin asks with an expectant stare.

“Both the Old and the New Councils.” Kevin nods and they move to enter the building. There’s a couple of guards standing at attention at the door and they give a perfunctory bow as Castiel passes while simultaneously eyeing Kevin suspiciously. Donna smiles brightly back at them, greets them.

The entryway is all cool stone and bright white. Granite with cool gray lines running through takes up the entire floor and there are benches of white stone along the walls. A fierce looking alabaster statue of a woman stands in the center of the room. She’s dressed for battle, a long blade of glinting silver in her hand. Two great wings spread out from her back, spread upwards and outwards, amplifying the snarl permanently etched on her face.

“It’s supposed to represent,” Kevin says quietly so that his voice does not echo across the empty foyer, “that the law is an avenging angel, ready to fight for those that need her help. I’m not quite sure how many of our council members pay her any mind. I’ve always found her a bit unnerving.”

“It’s interesting,” Castiel can’t help but remark. “You say she’s there to protect those in need but from what I’ve seen, the law has almost never helped them, certainly hasn’t avenged them. Maybe you’ve found her unnerving because she’s poised to attack, facing outward, facing the masses in the city before her.”

“Perhaps you could turn her around?” Donna suggests. “Once you’re king?” Castiel chuckles.

“I suppose I could,” he admits. “Although I’m sure I’d have some opposition. People are never overly fond of change.” Donna shrugs.

“But you’d be the king. It’s not like they could say no.”

“But they can,” Kevin chimes in. He nods his head to left and they set off down the hallway.

“All edicts from the Council must be passed by a two thirds majority,” Castiel recites. “In each chamber.”

“And how many would that be?”

“There are twelve members of the Old Council and fifty among the New. So eight and thirty three, respectively.”

“And how are members for each council selected?” Kevin continues his quiz.

“The New Council is selected by general election every two years,” Castiel says as they enter the first chamber of the building. It’s large and circular, with the seats for council members along the outer edges. In the center of the room stands a podium, behind it a raised platform with three seats, where the heads of the council sit and conduct business. No one is here today—the Council is not in session, which is partially why Kevin selected today for their field trip. After hearing about Hannah’s small party, Kevin says he’s done enough schmoozing for now. There will be time enough for that later. Today is about getting him acquainted with the law making process, part of his essential duties as king.

“And the Old Council?”

“Twelve individuals selected by the head of state, in this case, Princess Hannah. They are then confirmed for their positions by the New Council.”

“That’s kinda smart,” Donna remarks as they continue into the next chamber. “Means they have to work together.”

“Well, that was the idea,” Kevin says with a huff. “Although I suppose we’ve seen how well it’s worked out in the past few years.”

Difference of opinion would be putting mildly what happens in the Council Chambers. The two bodies live to contradict each other and the government’s been at pretty much a standstill for years. Every gain the common people made during the coup has been limited or cut down or taken away completely. Corruption runs rampant between the two councils and, no matter who is elected, there’s always just enough people on payroll willing to reconfirm the same members on the Old Council.

Hannah tries her best, Castiel supposes, but she can do nothing without both of these political groups on board. And rarely, if ever, do they agree.

Castiel wishes he could just dissolve these groups of men, get rid of councils all together. The government is made to serve the people but Castiel thinks it’s been a long time since anyone’s done more than look out for themselves. If there’s to be any change at all, then all these corrupt politicians need to go. He steps up to the podium in the center of the room and stares out at the empty chairs. Even with it all right here in front of him, he can’t imagine himself addressing the members of the Council. It’s been weeks but he’s still no more comfortable with the idea of becoming king.

The door on the other side of the room opens as he steps away from the lectern and all three of them tense at the interruption. Councilor Bartholomew walks into the room, striding confidently. More than a little overdressed in a navy blue military style jacket, complete with gold epaulettes on the shoulders. At his side, his blade glints under the light from the chandelier, its point sharp, for all that its uses are ceremonial. At first, he takes no notice of their trio but his look of surprise when he finally eyes them is so manufactured that Castiel can’t help but think that he planned to run into them.

“Your Highness,” he says with an over-dramatic bow. “What a coincidence to see you here!”

Donna shifts next to him, taking a step forward and to the side, so that she’s somewhat between Castiel and Bartholomew. It’s comforting to know that he’s not the only one that gets a bad feeling about this guy.

“We weren’t expecting to see anyone today, Councillor,” Castiel says. “In fact, Kevin planned our trip purposefully for a day that the Councils would not be in session.”

“I thought I left some papers in my office,” the man explains, oil dripping from each word. “They aren’t there though. My assistant must have misplaced them.”

“I hope that you find them, then,” Castiel says, dismissing the man. “Good day.” He has no desire to play whatever game Bartholomew is up to. He turns on his heel and walks back across the room, towards the entrance, Kevin and Donna following.

“Prince James,” he calls out, his footsteps catching up with theirs. “I wanted to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

“I’m afraid we’re kind of on a pressing schedule,” Kevin says, but Bartholomew completely ignores him. Apparently the boy isn’t worth his attention.

“I wanted to apologize for the incident earlier,” he continues. “But surely you understood that I was concerned for our country, for your sister.”

“Thank you,” Castiel replies cooly. “Now I’m afraid, we must get going.”

“I just wanted to make sure that, oh, I don’t know. Some country bumpkin wannabe priest wasn’t trying to pull one over on all of us to get some quick cash.” Castiel freezes, eyes wide. The story of his past had not been widely circulated. Hannah thought it best if they kept it to themselves, at least until all the hubbub of his return died down. He has no idea how Bartholomew has found out the truth, but he clearly wants Castiel to know that he has. “I’d hate to see what would happen if a story like that got out. But if Princess Hannah believes you to be her brother with absolute certainty, then I have no reason to doubt you.”

“That’s right,” Donna says. “You don’t.”

“I’ll let you be on your way then, shall I?” He bows once more. “Good day, Your Highness.” He stalks past them, leaving the three of them in the entryway to the chamber.

“He’s up to something,” Kevin says once he’s out of earshot.

“Oh no doubt,” Donna concurs. “Jody’s always had some officers keep an eye on him, at the Princess’ request. She rotates them too, to make sure that they’re not being bribed. And while they’ve turned up a little bit of dirty dealing to get some bills obstructed, we haven’t found anything too harmful. He’s slippery.”

“We should let your sister know,” Kevin says.

“Let her know what?” Castiel says, skeptically. “That he apologized?”

“He threatened you.”

“No, he didn’t. Not explicitly.”

“She’d still want to know,” Donna argues, but Castiel shakes his head.

“My sister runs this country. She works tirelessly day and night, trying to do some good. She doesn’t need to worry more about me just because some guy gave us all a bad feeling.”

“Let me at least tell Jody,” Donna tries. “We can ramp up your security.” Castiel shrugs.

“You can if you want. But this is my first outing outside the gated palace in weeks and it’s already crawling with security. There’s not much of an opportunity to strike.”

“Alright,” Donna concedes, but she’s still frowning. “I don’t like it, but you’re probably right.”

The three of them finish their tour—there isn’t all that much more to see, just the second council chamber and the office where Hannah works when she needs to act as executive in chief of the country. But they all move a bit quicker and don’t linger. Kevin only asks him the simplest of questions, trying to hurry to the end of their excursion so they can all go home. Donna’s tense, on red alert, the entire time. She doesn’t relax until they pile back into the car that brought them there, and even then, it’s slight.

Castiel huffs as he settles into his seat.

It had been such a nice day too.

* * *

He tosses and turns that night, unable to sleep.

It’s not so much that he’s worried about what Bartholomew will do; he’s much more concerned about how large a part of him keeps thinking—would it really be so bad?

It’s been weeks now of constant lessons and adjusting to everyday life at the palace and he still can’t help but feel like an outsider as he walks around. At the end of the day, he’s exactly what Bartholomew said he was: a country bumpkin out of his depth.

If Hannah wouldn’t be so disappointed, he’d tell her right now that he doesn’t want to rule. He doesn’t want to be king. And he certainly cannot handle the responsibility of shaping the nation when he can barely handle the responsibility of choosing what he wants for dinner. But he can’t bear to make his sister upset, not when she’s all he has left.

Part of the reason he hasn’t been as vocal with his displeasure of his position is that he’s not sure what else he could do. If he had somewhere to go or a particular calling he wanted to follow, he’s sure he could convince Hannah to let him do that instead. And even if he ran away, where would he go? Back to St. Ambrose’s? He’s not sure he could handle Sister Rachel’s disapproving stare. She would be more than unimpressed with him shirking his duty.  And the Winchesters…well, Dean made it pretty clear he didn’t want Castiel around anymore.

Restless and annoyed, he flips the covers up and off of him and gets out of bed. In his closet, shoved away in the corner, is the lone, sad duffle bag that he brought with him from the orphanage. He’s ignored it since Dean gave it to him, not ready to be reminded of his life on the road. Now’s as good a time as any, he thinks, as he pulls it out into the open. He pulls each piece of clothing out of his bag, the sad and threadbare pajamas, the black trousers, the button down shirts. His three books are still there, as are all his keepsakes. The envelope with the money that Naomi gave him is tucked away too, peeking out around some hastily folded underwear.

The only thing that’s missing is his coat. He frowns and empties out the bag entirely but it’s definitely not there. His eyes flick upwards, over the rows of hanging clothes he now has, thinking that perhaps, someone had taken it out, hung it up. But no, it’s not not there either.

It’s not a big deal—he has a plethora of coats now, all of them better made and of nicer material. But he was attached to that coat, can’t help but want it, even just for sentimental value.

He wonders if Dean kept it on purpose, what it would mean if he did.

Thinking like that won’t get him anywhere, he knows. He pushes the intrusive thoughts from his mind, turning his focus to the envelope from Mother Naomi. He pulls the cash out and counts it and he’s honestly a bit surprised that it’s all still there. Dean knew where it was, after all; it would have been easy to slip out a few bills or even take the whole thing.

But no, Dean wouldn’t do that. Not to him.

As he slips the money back into the envelope, a tiny piece of paper flutters out of it and onto the floor. He picks it up and sees, in Mother Naomi’s tight and neat handwriting: _Father Joshua Gardiner, Church of St. Martin_. The address is in the heart of the city.

“Oh,” he says to himself, suddenly remembering the contact the Mother Superior had passed along to him. He stares at the name for far too long before he hefts himself up and walks out of his room.

Like a man in a trance, he wanders down the hall to Donna’s room and knocks, loudly on the door. She opens it a moment later, bleary eyed and confused.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” She asks, blinking rapidly, her sidearm clutched in her hands. Dressed as she is in pajamas that are patterned with donuts, she makes quite a sight.

“I need to go out,” he demands.

“Now?” She replies, her face scrunching up in disbelief.

“Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just. It’s important.” She sighs.

“Okay,” she says, yawning widely. “Gimme a minute, I’ll put some clothes on and we can go.” Castiel exhales, his posture slumping in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, earnest and sincere. She gives him a wry smile.

“Well, you’re the boss!”

* * *

St. Martin’s is a large church, nestled into the heart of the city, and Castiel is surprised, in more than one way, that Mother Naomi has connections in a place that looks so grand. St. Ambrose’s is nothing if not a symbol of modesty and restraint. But this church is carved stone and ivy, stained glass and candlelight.  Inside, it looks like the pews stretched for miles, hemmed in by stone archways and chandeliers. Even in the dead of night, the place is lit up and bright, warm and welcoming. The vaulted ceiling is intricately painted and if he spent enough time looking at it, he’s sure he could figure out which stories from the bible someone took the time to painstakingly draw where most people wouldn’t notice. There’s three long mosaic stained glass windows stretching up above the altar and they catch a little of the light from the chandeliers. Castiel thinks that, in the daytime, with the sunlight streaming through them, they must be magnificent.

As it’s late at night, far too late for him to really be visiting, the church is all but empty. Castiel walks up the center aisle, footsteps echoing off the walls until he’s almost all the way to the first pew. He stops himself at the one third from the front and slides in. Donna sits behind him two pews back, and he’s thankful that she can sense he needs some space. Castiel sits there a long time, hands clasped and resting on the back of the pew in front of him, but he keeps his eyes open and he stares up at the altar in front of him. He doesn’t pray, not exactly. But he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t hoping that divine revelation would shine down upon him, grant him guidance.

While he’s waiting futilely, fruitlessly, a door opens quietly and two children slip into the church from a side door up near the altar. They’re dressed in the typical white and black robes of acolytes, but the cloth overwhelms them, is practically billowing in the drafty church. He knows they must be underfed, knows they must be orphans or beggars. Castiel watches them as they flit about, replacing the candles that have burnt too long and are now low blobs of wax. They perform their task silently and quickly, genuflecting before they scurry off, the chore clearly old hat. Castiel hopes that they have a roof over their heads and a warm meal in their stomachs tonight.

The children’s exit is punctuated by the entrance of a dark skinned man dressed in a simple robe and wearing a simple, wooden cross around his neck. He approaches Castiel slowly, slides into the pew from the opposite side so they’re sitting next to each other. They sit for a while and Castiel watches him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if this is the man he is looking for, if this is the Joshua that Naomi knows.

“I have to say, when I was told there was someone out in the church, waiting, I didn’t expect it to be you,” he says, breaking their silence, and Castiel’s heart sinks—he’s been recognized. It hasn’t happened often, mostly because he hasn’t left the palace all that much. But it’s a strange thing for him to have his anonymity taken away.

“You were expecting someone else?”

“It’s widely known that the church is always open. It’s a sanctuary for many. Some people like to be left alone, seek solitary reflection. But there are others…” he trails off, letting Castiel fill in the blanks.

“You like to help.”

“Is there something I can assist you with, Your Highness?” He asks.

“And how do you know that I’m not one of those people that wants a little bit of time for silent reflection?” Castiel stalls, though he’s not sure why.

“It’s entirely possible that you had the desire to seek revelation, even at such an odd time of night. But I would wonder why you came all the way out here. I’m sure you know, but the palace has its own chapel on the grounds.”

“I was hoping to find someone here,” Castiel answers. “A man named Joshua.” The man’s eyebrows lift with shock and curiosity.

“Then I would wonder what I’ve done to bring me the notice of the Crown Prince,” he replies, confirming Castiel’s suspicions.

“Nothing,” Castiel replies. “But before I became the Crown Prince, I was just a man. When I started my journey, Mother Naomi of St. Ambrose’s gave me your name. She told me that if I needed somewhere to go, if I needed any sort of help, to call on you.”

“Now that surprises me more than the Crown Prince wanting my attention,” he says with a quiet laugh. “I’ve known Mother a long time, but you would be the first person she’s ever sent my way.”

“You two don’t see eye to eye?” he jokes and Joshua chuckles.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“She can be…very officious,” Castiel supplies.

“I have a great deal of respect for her. The work she does is good. Never in a million years, though, would I have thought she’d have a high opinion of me.”

“I suppose she does. At the very least, she knew coming here would be a safe place for me. I’ll admit, I’m certainly not the most worldly. If I hadn’t found a couple friends along the way, well, there’s no knowing what would have happened to me when I got to the city. That is, if I had made it here at all.”

“Well I am grateful that you did, if only so that my perceptions of the world tilted on their axis,” he replies, amused.

“I was hoping,” Castiel says, his voice wavering slightly. “That I might have some guidance.” Joshua’s eyebrows raise and on most people, it would seem judging. But on Joshua, it’s a combination of expectation and invitation.

“And on what subject do you need advice from a poor, old priest?”

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses. “I wanted to find my family, find out what happened to them, where they’ve been for ten years. But it’s all snowballed out of control and now I’m the Crown Prince and my sister wants me to run the country in a matter of months.” Joshua doesn’t say anything, just gives him room to speak, to spill out the whole story.

“I don’t know if I can do it. There’s just…so much pressure, so much to learn, and not enough time to do it. There’s so much weight that goes along with each and every decision, with the expectation that I’m going to make everything better, that I’m going to be King James The Great. Like I’m going to usher forth a new regime and everything is going to be sunshine and rainbows. But that’s not how the world works. I _can’t_ do it. I don’t think I want to.”

“And if you weren’t king?” Joshua asks him. “What then?”

“I just want to go home,” he says the first thing that comes to mind, on instinct. And as he says it, he realizes it’s true. “I’ve always wanted to go home.”

He aches for it. And it’s not St. Ambrose’s he’s missing, although he does wish he could see Sister Rachel once more, let her know he’s alright. No, what he wants is to be back in that quiet, comfortable, easy place with Dean, where it’s just the two of them and everything between them was left unsaid was because it didn’t need saying. It was _understood_.

“I take it that home isn’t back at the palace, with your sister?” Castiel crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself.

“No, no it’s not.” He’s selfish, so incredibly selfish, to have been given the one thing he’s wanted his entire life and to want something different, want something more. Part of him thinks that he would cast Hannah aside in a moment if it meant that he had a second chance with Dean. “It doesn’t matter though. I have my duties, I have my family, and as much as I long for…this other place, I can’t just abandon them.” He and Joshua sit, reflecting in a pause of silence.

“I have been a priest a long time, Your Highness,” Joshua begins. “I have prayed and served and worshipped God the best way I knew how. I used to kneel at this altar, look up at the windows, and I would pour out all my problems to an invisible, divine force. I asked him for a lot of things, for intervention, for blessings on all those in need, for relief, for justice, for a sign. Anything to prove to me that he was out there, that he cared about his children, his creations. Do you know how many times God spoke back to me?”

“None,” Castiel guesses, resigned. Joshua shakes his head.

“No, he did speak to me. Just the once.” Castiel blinks and his face screws up, surprised. He’d been expecting some platitude about how that’s what faith meant, to still believe even when you have no way of knowing you’re right. “You want to know what he said?”

“Please.”

“Stop looking.”

“What?”

“Stop looking, Your Highness. There’s no one else that can solve your problems but you. God has given you free will and his power flows through you every time you use it. I can’t tell you what to do and neither can God.” Joshua stands up and walks out the other side of the pew. “Have a good night, Your Highness. I will pray for your peace of mind.”

He doesn’t turn around once as he walks back through where he came in. Alone but for Donna, Castiel takes a minute to himself, staring up at those stained glass windows.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s still holding out hope for a sign. But nothing happens. The candle light burns low with each passing minute and it’s not long before he, too, exits the church.


	13. Chapter 12

To say that Castiel is nervous is an understatement. He fidgets as he adjusts his tie in the mirror one last time before he’s to make his way downstairs for the banquet and his introduction to the public at large. It’s what he’s spent weeks working towards, countless hours with Kevin going over laws and etiquette, names and titles. But he can’t help but think that he’s going to fuck it all up somehow.

He’ll either eat something with the wrong fork or call someone by the wrong name or somehow, someway, insult someone accidentally, and oh gosh, is the air getting thicker in this room?

He pulls at the knot on his tie once more, loosening it so it’s easier to breathe. It helps a little bit, but he can feel his heart beating against his chest, can hear the rushing of his blood in his ears, and it wouldn’t surprise him to know that he’s broken out into a bit of a cold sweat.

“Calm down,” Hannah says from next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Hannah,” he croaks out. She reaches over and undoes his tie.

“You’re not going to mess up. Everything is going to be fine,” she soothes him, knotting the blue fabric into a much fancier twist than the basic one he’d done before. “Deep breath.” Castiel inhales, exhales, one big shaky breath.

“I thought Donna was going to walk me down.” Hannah shrugs as she loops the belt and scabbard around his hips. It’s old, a family heirloom, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t sharp. It’s more of a dagger than anything else, but it’s also the prototype for the blades they bestow upon those who are loyal to the crown, who receive special honor and rank for their services. Like the one Castiel has seen in Bartholomew’s possession.

“I thought you could use a little extra support.”

“Hannah,” he says, face softening, touched.

“You have no reason to be nervous, though. You are the Crown Prince. Lift your head high and walk in like you own the place.”

“But I _do_ ,” he laughs. She pats his cheek affectionate.

“Yes. Because you do.” He offer her his arm then and she slips her hand through it, resting her palm on the crook of his elbow.

She looks beautiful, her hair curled into an up-do and adorned with crystals. Her dress is high necked and long sleeved, the material of the bodice almost sheer and ice blue. The deeper, blue teal of the skirt hugs her waist and hips before draping luxuriously to the floor and trailing a little bit behind her, the train present but not overwhelming. She wears almost no jewelry, only a pair of simple earrings and a tiara on her head, diamonds and pearls delicately sparkling under the soft glow of the lights.

She looks every bit the queen she should be.

But he, well. Ostensibly, he knows that the tuxedo fits, that it was made for his precise measurements. The tailor came and fitted it to him twice before the ball. But he feels like a little boy playing dress up, like his jacket is too big and the shoes too clunky. It’s a role that he’s not sure is ever going to fit him. He’s a fish out of water, flopping on the shore and Hannah is the graceful swan, regal and admired, as she glides on the water.

Donna and Jody join them for their walk to the reception hall, where he and Hannah will stand and greet everyone who has come tonight. They’re dressed in sharp black suits and Donna has her hair tied up in a fashionable chignon at the base of her neck. She smiles once she sees them, bright and bubbly as always, but there’s a seriousness in her eyes that hasn’t left since the day that Bartholomew found them in the Council Garden. It’s intensified tonight and Castiel knows it’s because this whole party is a security nightmare. The palace is pretty much on lockdown, but with how many people will be showing up and how many extra people they hired to be staff for the evening, it wouldn’t be hard for someone who isn’t supposed to be here to slip in.

At the top of the hall, Castiel and Hannah take their places right at the door to greet the receiving line already waiting for them. Donna and Jody stand behind them, to the side, their eyes sharp and focused. Giving his arm one last reassuring squeeze, Hannah slips her hand from the crook of his arm and gives Linda a nod. At her glance, two serving boys come forward and open the doors and just like that, the evening has begun.

Linda announces each and every person who approaches them, old aristocracy, new bourgeoisie, and prominent members of Eden society. The men bow, the women curtsey and the siblings return the favor. It’s a routine that, quite frankly, gets exhausting quick. After the twentieth group of people he’s greeted, Castiel is no longer smiling and does no more than tuck his head forward in acknowledgement.

He’s not sure how long he’s been making his salutations when Linda announces the names of two people that make him freeze up entirely.

“Dean and Sam Winchester.” He gasps softly and chances a glance at Hannah. She never mentioned that the two young men would be coming, let alone that she planned on inviting them. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to react to the gaping, unconcealed surprise that is splayed across his face. But he can tell she desperately wants to smile, desperately wants to turn to him and stick her tongue out.

He’s not really sure if he loves her or hates her right now, but as the two brothers move forward to pay respects to her first, he cannot help but be grateful that he gets one more chance to see both Sam and Dean, gets one more chance to close that chapter of his life and maybe, finally move on. Both brothers bow low and reverently and Hannah honors them by curtseying just as respectfully back, practically sinking to her knees. Once she rises, she grabs hold of each of their hands, pulls them close, and presses a kiss to their cheeks.

Sam is surprised, but it’s nothing compared to the gobsmacked look on Dean’s face. With a couple small gestures, Hannah has now marked them both as guests of high honor, made sure that everyone here tonight will treat them with just as much esteem. They must linger too long in their stupor because Jody moves forward a second later and gently prods them along. They turn to Castiel and while Sam beams at him, terror flits across Dean’s face. Castiel can feel his chest constrict in his chest; as heartbroken as he is, he never wants Dean to be scared of him. Never.

He forces a smile on his face as they bow, hoping that it will set Dean a little more at ease, but it only makes him more tense.

“It’s good to see you, Cas,” Sam says.

“I’m glad you came. _Both_ of you.” Dean doesn’t respond but Castiel can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. That’s all he has a chance to say before they’re off again, others moving into the hall to take their place.

The meeting is altogether way too brief, but there are others that need to come through. Castiel knows that he’ll have more time, once the ball begins, to seek them out, to actually talk and he resolves that he’ll search high and low, to make sure that neither of the Winchesters hides from him tonight. The brothers move on and a husband and wife take their place to be received, but he only spares them a glance before ignoring them entirely. His eyes are on Dean’s form as he and Sam head towards the ballroom to their left.

“Dean!” the sound bursts forth from his lips before he can over think it. He’s aware that everyone’s eyes are on him now, but for the first time he’s not worried about what they think. The brothers are already halfway down the entryway, but Dean stops and glances over his shoulder, his gaze a relief. Castiel didn’t know until that moment that he’d been afraid that Dean would just keep walking. It would have been easy enough to pretend he didn’t hear him. Mustering up all his courage, he calls out, “Save me a dance?”

He can’t hear it from this far away, but he can see Dean’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. He nods his assent quickly, decisively, and oh does that one, small gesture open the floodgates of hope on Castiel’s heart.

* * *

 It turns out that he doesn’t have to go hunting for the Winchesters after all. While cocktails and hor d’oeuvres circulate around the room, Sam approaches him first with a broad smile.

“Hey Cas.”

“Sam.” Castiel slumps with ease, moving forward to give the boy a quick hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, sheepish, “we kinda rushed out on you last time, didn’t we? I’m sorry.” Castiel shakes his head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who made mistakes. Thank you for coming tonight.”

“It’s not all your fault, Cas,” Sam reassures him. A waiter passes by them, holding a tray of champagne and some sort of puff pastry bite and they grab one of each.

“You’re underage,” Castiel remarks as Sam takes a healthy swallow of his drink. He shrugs.

“No one’s checking ID. And after that move your sister pulled, well, I could probably ask someone for a unicorn and they’d go out and hunt me one down.”

“With great power comes great responsibility, Sam.”

“Hey, I didn’t start it. Your sister did.”

“I suppose so,” Castiel reluctantly concedes.

“We weren’t expecting it. Honestly, from what Dean had told me about her, I was pretty sure she didn’t like us all that much.”

 _She did it for me_ , Castiel wants to say. _You’re right, she isn’t overly fond of you, but you brought me back, in the end, and my esteem for you means that you have hers as well._

But instead, what comes out is, “Hannah rarely discusses her decisions with me beforehand. I wasn’t even aware that she had invited you both tonight.”

“No wonder you looked like a deer in the headlights.”

“It was…surprising, to say the least, when Linda announced your presence.”

“Eh, you did a bit better than Dean. He looked like he was about to faint,” Sam says with a snigger. At the mention of the other Winchester brother, Castiel’s eyes dart out into the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “He’s uh…he needed a moment, Cas. He’ll be around later.”

“We’ll dance,” Castiel says, reassuring himself.

“Yeah,” Sam confirms. “You’ll dance.”

“Sam can I…Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you tell Dean?” He can’t look at Sam when he asks, too unsure about his own emotions and Sam’s reactions. So he doesn’t necessarily see Sam shrug, but he hears the fabric of his suit jacket rustle and out of the corner of his eye, he senses a movement.

“I don’t know, man. I wanted to give you time to tell him yourself, like you said you would. But when you didn’t…It just didn’t seem right to rain on the parade, not when the truth was going to come out one way or the other.”

“If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Dean,” Castiel concludes.

Sam sighs. “You deserve to be happy too, Cas.”

“Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?” he asks, ignoring what Sam just said. Sam scoffs.

“Dude, I know you’ve known Dean a relatively short amount of time, but even you have to know that he’s so far gone on you that I doubt there’s anything you could do that he wouldn’t forgive you for.” Castiel whirls around at this, incredulous.

“He told me that we were never in a relationship and he never wanted to be, not with me. He was quite clear, Sam. There was no room for misinterpretation.”

“Yeah well, Dean’s an idiot,” Sam remarks offhand, draining the rest of his champagne. “He didn’t mean it.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” Dean interjects from behind them. Castiel jumps, startled by the sudden arrival but Sam just rolls his eyes. He’s fairly used to Dean’s antics by now.

“Jerk,” he snipes good-naturedly before walking off.

“Bitch,” Dean calls out after him. And then it’s just the two of them, alone but for the crowd around them.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, winded. His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he’s sure that there is some sort of insect crawling around in his stomach, but that doesn’t matter because Dean’s here, standing in front of him.

“Your Highness,” he greets, his voice uncertain, and Castiel can’t help it, he fucking whimpers, pained by Dean’s refusal to use his name.

“It’s just Cas. It’s always been just Cas for you,” he insists, his voice taking on a pleading edge.

“Cas,” he tries again. “They’re um. Starting up the music if you uh. Wanted to dance.” Castiel smiles, wide and gummy.

“I’d love to.” He knocks back what remains of his drink and deposits the glass on the tray of a waiter who passes in front of them. From the opposite side of the room, he hears the musicians warming up. Taking Dean’s hand, he leads him through the crowd until they break forth to the cleared floor. Dean stops short, finally noticing their audience, but Castiel doesn’t let him linger on the edges, out of sight.

He walks straight to the middle of the floor and, looking right at Dean, he bows. Dean hunches up his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable, but he still walks out to meet Castiel on the middle of the floor. The musicians start to play and Castiel reaches forward, places one hand on Dean’s waist and entwines their fingers in the other. He takes one moment to look directly in Dean’s eyes and then makes the first step.

Dean squirms slightly under his gaze but his feet follow the steps brilliantly, even though Castiel is leading. “You’ve gotten a lot better at this,” he remarks as they make their first turn. There’s more confidence, more flair in each move he makes.

“I’ve been practicing,” he replies. “Hannah hired someone to give me some more lessons.”

“And here I thought I was special,” he jokes but it falls flat.

“You are Dean.” He’s completely sincere. Dean looks away, his gaze resting on Castiel’s left shoulder.

“You don’t mean that, Cas.”

“I do,” he insists, pressing a little closer so that Dean can hear him more easily. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Dean Winchester.”

Dean laughs softly and shakes his head. “Cas, I’m just some guy from the sticks. It was chance that brought us together and it was fun while it lasted, really. But you gotta let it go.”

“No. I don’t want to,” Castiel quips.

“Come on, you deserve better than some schmuck like me.”

“Your self-loathing is truly frustrating, Dean, and I refuse to feed into it. You are the best man I know and I would be lucky to have you.”

“It’s not self-loathing if it’s the truth,” Dean sounds resolute and if they were in a less public place, Castiel would shake him. He settles for changing the subject.

“What you said the last time we saw each other—that you didn’t want to be with me. Was that true?” Dean exhales loudly through his nose, but doesn’t say anything right away as he gathers his thoughts.

“I like you. I like you a lot, Cas,” he says, his voice wavering slightly, like he’s unsure if that’s a thing he’s allowed to feel. “But the fact remains that I’m a nobody. And when you were a nobody, that was fine. I still thought you deserved better than some drifter conman, but it didn’t matter all that much in the long run because you were a nobody too. But you’re somebody now, Cas. You’re more than someone, you’re a fucking prince!”

“King, if my sister has anything to say about it,” Castiel grumbles.

“See? The future king can’t be with someone like me. You gotta see that what we have, it can’t go anywhere. There’s this giant…canyon between the two of us and I’m standing at the bottom. When I look up at you, you’re so far out of reach that a man like me can’t even dream about actually touching you. I have to let you go. You’re better off.”

“And I don’t have any say in this?”

“No, you don’t.”

“And if it makes me absolutely miserable?” Castiel demands. “Because honestly Dean, I’ve been a wreck. Hannah and Donna and Jody can all confirm it. Being with you was the happiest I have ever been and I miss you.”

“That’ll pass. You’ll find someone new, someone better for you, and you’ll forget all about me.”

“I don’t want anyone else, Dean. I want _you.”_

“Cas,” Dean sighs. “I just…we can’t. Okay? Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Why did you come here tonight then? You already broke things off with me, so why come here tonight, why break my heart all over again?”

“I wasn’t going to,” Dean admits. “I was going to stay away. But Sam made me come. He thought I needed some closure or whatever. Mostly I think he wants us to get back together.”

“I suppose he’ll be disappointed then,” Castiel snipes.

“Yeah, he will be,” Dean says, resigned.

Castiel laughs bitterly. “You are a lot of things, Dean Winchester, but I never thought you to be cruel.”

“I’m not trying to be. I was gonna come here and hide, really. Was hoping to get away with you never knowing I actually came. But then Sam dragged us to be announced instead of letting me slip in the back and well. It’s kinda hard to hide when Linda Tran is calling out your name for everyone to hear.”

“I don’t suppose Hannah’s acknowledgement made it any easier to slip in unnoticed.” Dean scoffs.

“That it did not. Your sister is something else, you know that? Pretty sure she did that just to get me back for turning down the reward money.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” There’s a lull in their conversation now and Dean lets Castiel lead him around the room in silence. All around them, other couples dance joyfully, the room a cacophony of chatter and music.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Cas,” Dean finally says. “I really was going to leave you alone at this thing. But then you asked me to dance. What can I say? I’m weak.”

“Dancing with you in Bobby’s living room,” Castiel admits quietly, “is one of my favorite memories.” Dean looks at him then, and the me too in his eyes is so clear that it doesn’t need to be said. Castiel pulls Dean closer and they stumble slightly, their legs tangling as they get used to the nearer proximity.

“I wish things were different,” Dean concedes. “But I just can’t see any way for this all to work out.”

“It could, if you let it. I’m going to be king, Dean. I _make_ the rules.”

“I’m not exactly a scholar here or anything, but I can guess that you really don’t. Neither of us can just do what we want, not without consequences. And I’m not going to let you mess everything up over me.” The music fades out, coming to a stop. Amidst the applause of the guests, Dean pulls away and makes his escape.

Alone in a crowd of strangers, Castiel’s heart breaks one final time. He turns on his heel and pushes his way back through the crowd. He can hear them whispering behind him but can’t find it in himself to care. Let them talk—their opinions hardly matter. It feels like the whole room is closing in on him so he makes a break for the side doors, the ones that lead out to the courtyard gardens.

The fresh air does wonders for him. He takes in lungful after lungful of it, panting as he leans against the wall next to the door. Once he gets his breathing under control, he straightens up and walks further into the garden. He knows he should go back to the party, that he shouldn’t really be out alone, but the thought of going back in there to find Donna is unbearable. Besides, as unobtrusive as she tries to be, he really cannot deal with her optimistic demeanor right now. He’s unhappy and upset and he wants to wallow in it.

The gardens are empty and quiet, peaceful and secluded. The hedges that surround the perimeter of the gardens are taller than he is and they’re thick enough that no one can see through them, let alone run through them. Not without serious injury to themselves. The pathways are lined with statues and flower beds, fountains and bushes. Past the hedges, on the edge of the garden trees grow thick and tall, their branches and leaves reaching into the sky above. Castiel walks, not really sure where he’s going and hardly paying attention to his surroundings.

He let himself hope and he knows that was most dangerous thing he could have done. It made the disappointment just that much more crushing. He wanted Dean so much. Still does. He’d even be content at this point to be friends, if that was the only way that he could have him. But after that conversation, Castiel isn’t going to hold his breath.

Castiel wishes that he could make Dean see himself the way that Castiel sees him. He’s rough around the edges, sure, but he loves so strongly it shines through him, a brightness that he’ll never be able to put out. Castiel supposes that he’ll never get to see that glow again.

Perhaps it’s for the best.

He’s always known, _always_ , that people like him don’t get to have it all. The fact that he has his sister back, has a family, has a future should be more than enough. To get Dean as well? That would be greedy.

Mother Naomi always did tell him he needed to be more content with what he had.

He continues through the garden, aimless, and as time passes, the ache in his heart does lessen, but it never goes away completely. He doubts it ever will. He stops at a stone bench, just for a minute to gather his thoughts. He all but collapses into the seat, bends almost in half, resting his elbows on his knees and running his hands through his hair. He pulls slightly at it and his scalp aches in protest. It does nothing to distract him from his thoughts.

When he finally lets go of his hair and straightens out, he realizes he’s no longer alone.

He stiffens, seeing the figure leaning against the pedestal of a statue not fifteen feet away from him. Tall and broad, dressed in a tuxedo, and in his hand, his ever present blade, glinting in the moonlight, stands Bartholomew.

“Councillor,” Castiel greets him, wary.

“Your Highness,” he responds but he doesn’t bow. He just smirks and pushes off from the marble so he can approach Castiel. “You’re missing the party.”

“The same could be said of you.”

“Oh but I’m not the guest of honor,” he says with a wolfish grin. “Something must have really upset you, if you’re out here, hiding during your own celebration.”

“I don’t see how it’s any business of yours,” he replies coolly, standing. Bartholomew is only a couple paces away from him now, but he makes no moves to get closer.

“You and that Winchester fellow looked rather…cozy on the dance floor.”

“That’s also not any of your business,” Castiel snaps, but Bartholomew ignores him.

“I suppose that he’ll miss you when you’re gone. Or maybe not, considering how he practically fled after you two finished dancing.”

“What are you going on about?” Castiel says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh you’ll change your mind about that.” He tosses his blade into the air, catches it again, but now it’s pointed right at Castiel. The tip is just a hair’s breadth away from his neck. “I’ve worked too damn hard for ‘Prince James’ to finally show up, ten years later and ruin everything. I don’t care where you came from, but you’re going to go back there or I’m going to make you disappear.”

“I _am_ Prince James,” Castiel insists. “I’m not lying.”

Bartholomew laughs, cold and chilling. “You have to be. There was no pulse. I checked! And with all loose ends tied up, there was no way anyone was ever going to find the body. So either you’ve risen from the dead, or you’re a _fraud_. I’m sure you can tell me which is more likely.”

“You can’t prove it,” Castiel replies as the facts begin to slot into place in his head. “Not without incriminating yourself.”

“You’re right,” Bartholomew agrees, completely calm. “Which is why you’re going to vanish. We’ll have another search for you, of course, but you’ll stay hidden—I don’t really care where—and in exchange, I’ll let you leave here with your life.”

“No.”

Bartholomew frowns then, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “I don’t think you’re grasping the whole of the situation, _Castiel_.” Castiel inhales sharply. “Oh yes, I know who you are. I know what you’re name is. I know all about your little plan with Dumb and Dumber to trick the princess to get the reward money. And if you had any sense at all, which I’m sure you don’t, considering you’re in love with Dean ‘Self-Worth Issues’ Winchester, you’d do as I say and leave now, with the clothes on your back, and never return.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I don’t need to know everything to know that I’m not going to let some country bumpkin get in my way,” Bartholomew spits, “For years I have bowed and knelt, flattered and bribed my way to get here. I was the most powerful man in the land before the coup, did you know that? Your father didn’t care anymore, he’d completely checked out. I wish I could say I had to fight for the authority, but I really didn’t. I was just the only one who had the guts to make a grab for it.

“And he practically gave it to me, was relieved that he no longer had to make every decision. But there was no way for me to keep it, not with an heir running around and an interfering sister in the way. So I made plans, sent the sister away. And then it wasn’t hard to fan the flames a bit, get the people to riot. And swaying the bodyguard to my cause was nothing. For one brief moment I had it all, and then the damn Princess, your ‘sister’, waltzed in like she owned the place and ruined everything.”

He knows it will only inflame Bartholomew more, but he can’t help it. He laughs.

“Here’s the thing, Councillor,” Castiel replies, “ _She does_. You never had anything, and you’re delusional to think that you will.” He watches for all of a second as Bartholomew’s face screws up in rage and then he’s lunging at Castiel, blade in hand, apparently having had enough of playing ‘nice’. Castiel ducks, the end of Bartholomew’s blade just narrowly missing him, but the sudden movement sets him off balance. He topples to the ground.

He scrambles as Bartholomew goes to strike again, hands fumbling as they reach for his own blade still sheathed on his hip. The sound of metal clashing fills the air as Castiel blocks the strike, but it’s a small reprieve. Bartholomew still has the higher ground and he’s vulnerable right now.

“You know, despite her best efforts, nothing really changed. Hannah’s more of a figurehead than anything else. Step by step, I’ve managed to strip away most of her acting power. Hell, she did it for me, focusing on finding _you_ , never once trying to take control of the power that was just dropped in her lap. She doesn’t _deserve_ to rule.”

“But I’m a wrench in your plans.” Castiel crouches, trying to get to his feet. “You can’t control me like you do her.”

“Which is why you have to go,” he snarls, slicing at Castiel. The blade catches this time, rips a hole in his suit, slashes his skin, turns his white shirt red. He presses at the wound briefly and hisses at the pain. It doesn’t feel too deep but he doesn’t exactly have time to inspect it right now.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats. He knows he has to go on the offensive, so he parries the next blow and lunges himself. The hit connects and Bartholomew’s face explodes in shock. He touches the injury and is amazed to find his fingers covered in blood when he pulls away. His expression turns thunderous then.

“Oh now you’re in for it, boy.” But he never has a chance to attack because suddenly there’s Dean. He runs across the garden and tackles Bartholomew to the ground, almost snarling.

“No,” he growls, winding his arm back and punching Bartholomew in the face. Caught off guard, Bartholomew doesn’t have a chance to block the blow to his face and he grunts as Dean’s fist makes contact with his cheek. The shock of the blow doesn’t last long though. He retaliates, slashing with his blade, but Dean effortlessly evades it. They tussle, the two of them all but rolling around to see who can gain the upper hand. In the end, Bartholomew finds leverage somewhere, manages to upend Dean and pin him. He has one hand tightly around Dean’s neck and the other holding his sword aloft, ready to plunge into Dean’s heart.

“Dean!” Castiel shouts, as he rushes forward to help.

“Not another step,” Bartholomew barks, stopping Castiel in his tracks. “I’ll make you a new deal. Go, _now_ , and I won’t kill him. But if you make one more move, then I will shove this blade through his chest.”

“Cas, no, don’t listen to him,” Dean croaks as he squirms, hands scratching and clawing at the fingers around his throat.

“Dean, _shut up_ ,” Castiel snaps, taking a step backwards.

“You’re making the right choice here, Your Highness.”

“I’m not worth it, Cas. Seriously, just finish this douche off, don’t worry about me.”

“How do I know you’re not going to kill him the minute I’m gone?” Castiel asks.

“You don’t.” Castiel’s hand twitches at his side, desperately wanting to punch the smug bastard’s face in. “But if you don’t leave then Winchester here definitely dies. And who’s to say the same fate won’t happen to his little brother, hm? Accidents happen all the time.”

“You leave Sam alone, you son of bitch,” Dean snaps, his movements picking up with renewed rage. “You touch one hair on his head and you’ll regret it, I swear to God.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands,” Bartholomew replies, tightening his grip. Dean chokes.

“Okay!” Castiel shouts and he takes another step backwards. “Okay I’ll leave, just. Let him go. Please.”

“Good boy,” Bartholomew says, condescending. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

“Cas,” Dean rasps, weakly.

“If I find out that you’ve hurt him, you’ll regret it.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure I will. Better hurry along now, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to him because you took your sweet time.”

Castiel turns on his heel and begins to steadily walk away. He takes one step, two, and then he whirls back. Gripping the blade of his sword, he hurls it, sending it flying through the air to where it hits its mark. Bartholomew reels backwards with the blow and falls in a heap next to Dean, sword through his throat, dead.

“Oh my god.” No longer pinned Dean scrambles away from the dead body next to him. “Oh my god, Cas.”

Castiel rushes to him, falling to his knees beside him. Immediately he reaches out for him, touches his shoulders, his neck, his face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Cas. I swear,” he says, his hands coming up to grip the trembling ones on his face. He presses a kiss to Castiel’s knuckles, before letting them drop. “Cas that was badass. Did you know you could do that? Because I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Dancing isn’t the only thing I’ve been practicing, Dean,” he says and Dean laughs, raspy and wheezy. He frowns at the noise and strokes down the side of Dean’s bruised throat, caressing the skin lightly before he stands. “You’re hurt. We should get you a doctor, find Jody or Donna or Hannah. _Somebody_.”

“Cas, wait.” Dean makes a grab for him, manages to get a hold of Castiel’s hand.

“What? What is it Dean?”

“Just. Stay? Please.” Dean looks up at him, meets his eyes, his gaze nervous but heartfelt. Dean’s never been good with words, with asking for what he wants, but Castiel has always been good at reading between the lines. Castiel knows that he means more than just right now, in the garden. Smiling, Castiel’s shoulders slump with relief and he leans down to press a kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Always, Dean. Always.”

There’s still so much that both of them need to talk about, but for now, everything will be alright. They’re alive, they’re together, and they have all the time in the world to figure things out.


	14. Epilogue

_Dearest Sister,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Please pass my greetings on to Kevin and Linda, Jody and Donna. Have the latter two finally stopped dancing around each other? You know I just want the two of them to be happy and my asking has nothing at all to do with a bet Dean and I have going._

_Speaking of Dean, he sends his regards as well. Well, not really. You know him. But I’m sure he’s thinking them (even if you don’t). He’s been kept quite busy the past week or so, as he’s finally found a place for himself at St. Ambrose’s. I’m sure you’ll recall from my last letter, I was worried that the nuns were never going to warm up to him. Sister Rachel, especially, has been quite unsubtle about her disapproval. She told me the other day that she thought I could do better. Rest assured, I informed her of the opposite. Dean is a good man, the best man I know._

_And I truly think that she’s finally starting to see that, at least after what happened the other day. While waiting for me to finishing concluding my classes with the children, Dean happened upon Sonny, our groundskeeper, tinkering with the car the church owns. Sonny is a strong man, intimidating, and with a rather distinct mustache. But underneath it all, there is a kindness, a patience in him. He often works with some of the boys who are a bit troubled, letting them help him out with the grounds work when they have time. The physical exertion that the tasks entail give them an outlet for all their pent up emotions. I wish he had been around when I was growing up, although I’m not sure how much good I’d have been at mowing the lawn or weeding the garden or fixing the plumbing. I probably would have only made the problem worse._

_But Dean knows all of these things and he’s got good instincts when it comes to machines. The car was broken down, wouldn’t start. Sonny knows a fair bit, but cars are not his forte. Dean stepped right in and helped sort out the problem—a dead battery, I was told. One thing led to another, and now Dean’s been working on getting the orphanage’s tractor up and running for the past week. He’s waiting on some replacement parts procured at a cheap price from Bobby._

_For his efforts, Sister Rachel made him a blueberry pie as a gesture of thanks. I’m not sure who was more surprised to be honest, me or Dean (or even Sister Rachel). But the pie was delicious. If there was any way of getting it to you, I would have saved you a slice. I suppose I’ll just have to sweet talk Rachel into baking when you’re here on your next visit._

_The children I teach are doing wonderfully and the younger ones have all impressed upon me to tell you that they wish you good health. One particular girl, named Claire—who I will admit, I have a special fondness for—would also like me to relay to you that she thinks you’re very pretty. I have been working hard on getting the concepts of basic arithmetic down with the five to eight year old group. We’ve been doing a lot of creative problems to help them along. Dean helps—he’ll gather acorns and pebbles from the forest for me, other small and shiny trinkets, so that the children have a concrete visual in front of them to learn from. The children, of course, all adore Dean. On the mornings that he drives me to St. Ambrose’s, classes inevitably start ten minutes late as the children swarm around Dean, asking him questions. I’ve had to limit him driving me to twice a week and any times there is inclement weather in an effort to stay on time._

_As far as the older children are concerned, the fifteen to eighteen year olds, I have been working with them tirelessly on preparing for the university entrance exams. My goal is to have each of them get a high enough score that can receive one of the scholarships you set up after my return. They’re all incredibly bright, but little Alfie is definitely the most promising. We’ve had many talks about his future and what he wants to do and he shyly confessed that he wants to get involved in politics, make a difference. He reminds me a lot of Sam. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a few years, you meet him as a representative on the New Council._

_Although, I suppose, it’s hardly ‘New’ anymore, as it’s the only council. I know you’ve been under attack by members of the old guard since you dismantled the Old Council, but I, for one, am glad you did it. If this country is to move forward, to progress, and if the government is to serve the people, then the corruption and the closed mindedness needed to go. We can already see the effects of the new government, even out here. There are areas of Lawrence that have been entirely rebuilt with the assistance from the latest funding bill. I have also noticed that people are softer, kinder now. It’s amazing how not wondering where your next meal is going to come from can change a person’s attitude._

_I know that, back when we last spoke at your coronation, you were concerned that I would resent you, eventually, for taking what was mine by birth. That I’d change my mind. I’d like to reassure you again that I do not and I have not. Hannah, you are doing a better job than I ever could have hoped to do. There’s no doubt that, should I have taken the spot on the throne, I would have fumbled, would have failed. I was not meant to be King just as much as you were meant to be Queen._

_Besides, I’ve come to learn that I am much more suited for country living than leading a nation. Did you know, there’s this large orange tom cat that follows me when I ride my bike to the orphanage? He’ll trot along side me, on the road, and I’ve grown used to his company. I’ve named him Honey, because of his coloring, and Dean has teased me mercilessly for it. He insists that a cat like that needs a much manlier name. But Honey I have called him and Honey he shall stay. He lets me pet him, sometimes, but never for very long. Regardless, I enjoy having him around. He steers clear of the house but Dean’s allergic, so even if he wanted to come inside, I couldn’t let him._

_In other news, Sam is doing very well at school—he writes in his latest letter that he’s still at the top of his class. Dean and I are not surprised, but we are definitely proud. He’ll be coming home on his break very shortly and this time, there’s a friend accompanying him. Her name is Sarah and while Sam insists they’re just friends, Dean and I both suspect there is more to the story than that. Either way, I’m sure that Dean will relish the opportunity to turn the tables on his brother and tease him about his love life. I’d almost feel sorry for Sam, if I hadn’t had to endure his gentle ribbing for so long._

_Dean is very excited about Sam’s return, but it’s also prompted him to clean the place, top to bottom, and he’s roped me into it. I suppose we’re very lucky that the house is practically a cottage, so it shouldn’t take us too long. We’ll have the place sparkling in no time, I’m sure. And if we don’t, I can always hide back outside with my hives until Dean’s done._

_He’s still afraid of the bees, which I think is funny. He’s certainly never been stung by them—and yes, I know, he’d say it’s because he doesn’t go near them. But they’re good insects and the honey they produce is giving us some extra income, that I’m putting away for a rainy day. Ellen has put me in contact with a man named Cain to sell it. He’s a mild mannered farmer, quiet, stern, and a bit of a loner. But he brings my honey to market with him and brings me back the profits. He gets a cut of course._

_Now, before you go offering me more money, I want to assure you that Dean and I are very financially secure. We want for nothing. And while I know you insist on making sure I get my share of inheritance, I ask you to please hold it in trust for the time being. We don’t need it. Even with the wedding coming up—it’s four months away now and I can hardly believe how time has flown!—we are managing just fine._

_Lastly, I’ve enclosed something our friend Charlie passed along to me the other week. She was looking into something for her girlfriend’s client and found the photographs from our parents wedding. There’s one of your christening too. Knowing that we both have so few keepsakes of them, I’d thought I’d share them with you. They’ll certainly be in safer hands and less likely to get lost if you hold on to them for us._

_I’m looking forward to hearing from you soon. I know that I will see you in a few short months, but that’s still too far away for me to be happy with. Take some time away from your very busy schedule and write your brother a letter. You can call us too—I’ve just had a phone line put in and I’ve written the number below for you. And I do hope that you can come down a bit before the ceremony. I know it’s a little more rustic out here than you’re used to but I do want to spend some time with you, just the two of us. You may be the Queen but you’re also my big sister._

_Take care._

_Love,_

_Castiel_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’d been kicking around the idea of an Anastasia!AU for months when I finally broke down and started writing this back in January. It grew and grew until it took on a life of its own. For months, this fic has consumed my entire creative drive and even when I hated writing it, I never thought to put it away for a bit and work on anything else. It is a labor of love and definitely the longest thing I’ve ever written (not to mention, the first chaptered work I’ve completed since high school). I’m both nervous and excited to let the world at large have a look at this, at long last. I hope that you all enjoy it.
> 
> ****6/25/17: It has come to my attention that this fic has been listed on Goodreads. I am currently in the process of having the fic removed from that site. I have not and will not give permission for any of my works to be listed on Goodreads. I ask that in the future, you do not add my work there. Thank you.****


End file.
